


Four Lines

by LaMarwy



Series: m'eudail [1]
Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Blood, Complete, Dub!Con, F/F, Force-Feeding, Implied/Referenced Stalking, Knifeplay (I guess?), Rough Care, Sexual Content, Smut, Sort Of, Stockholm Syndrome, Swearing, it's soft in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 32,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMarwy/pseuds/LaMarwy
Summary: Slowly, the thought you’ve been stubbornly pushing in the back of your head, comes inevitably forward, because there’s no reason to deny it anymore, better face the harsh reality: although you don’t know how or why, you’ve been kidnapped.
Relationships: Miranda Croft / Reader
Series: m'eudail [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140818
Comments: 393
Kudos: 192





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a dream and now I have no excuses. Miranda Croft lives in my mind rent-free and she can kidnap me anytime.  
> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 1

When you wake up, there’s a throbbing in your head.  
Your ears ring annoyingly and your throat is sore, dry. When you try to speak, you notice something between your lips, pushing the corners of your mouth painfully. You try to remove the offending object - it’s undeniably a rag tied to the back of your head - but your hands too are blocked, bound together on the small of your back, and there’s a ticker rope around your waist, running below your breasts, pinning your elbows down. It’s impossible to move at all, since your ankles are bound as well. You try to move your shoulders anyway, or kick to loose some tight knots, but you find yourself only grunting desperately, and in the end, you give up trying at all, your muscles aching. 

You let out a frustrated growl and slowly, blinking, your tired eyes focus and you look around, taking in the surroundings.

Neon bars cast white light from the ceiling, it’s faint but enough for you to see: it’s a small room, like a vault, with aseptic, dark walls and grates instead of the floor; up above your head, you see a lazy vent spinning and it hums and squeaks, following a disturbing rhythm; the room is completely bare unless for the slim mattress underneath you and the toilet in the further corner; lastly, there’s a door, which looks like it’s made of pure iron or something heavy along those lines.

You try to push yourself up, you struggle until you succeed at least in that, and in the end, you scoot next to the wall and lean against it, utterly spent.

Casting down your eyes, you see there are small droplets of blood soiling the mattress where your head has been laying and you imagine there’s a cut on your forehead, right where you feel the annoying throbbing.

Slowly, the thought you’ve been stubbornly pushing in the back of your head, comes inevitably forward, because there’s no reason to deny it anymore, better face the harsh reality: although you don’t know how or why, you’ve been abducted.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody comes to your cell and a glass of water is placed on the floor.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde  
> For updates & extras about my stories, follow me on ista: lamarwy_ao3

DAY 2

“You’re awake?”

Something nudges at one of your bound ankles and you rouse with a gasp, eyes blinking in panic as you writhe against the wall, curling on yourself to make your body little.

Your mouth is sore due to the rag that still rests between the rows of your teeth, and when you try to speak - even if just to beg whoever is in your cell with you to not hurt you - only a pitiful whimper comes out of your lips.

Your ears barely catch a _click_ , followed by a _shuffle_.

“Cut the drama.” The female voice you hear, clearly this time, seems slightly annoyed.

Your chest heaves and drops erratically, fear rising within you at the same speed of your bile crawling up your throat. You’re thirsty and sore because you slept upward against the wall and you don’t even know anymore if it’s the fear of dying - or suffering a punishment of some sort - or the last shred of pride that is left in you, but you open your eyes, and tentatively look up at the figure standing tall in front of you.

You were expecting your abductor to wear a mask, a scarf, or even black glasses, but instead, the woman has her face in full display. You take her in, chocolate brown hair tied loosely on the back of her head, teeth flashing in a crooked smile underneath her thin, nude lips, and two strikingly blue eyes, almost shining at the artificial lights of the neons.

She’s wearing a long leather coat, black, tied with a belt around her waist, in one hand - gloved in leather - a tall glass of cristal clear water, in the other - also gloved - the cause of those disturbing noises you heard before: a butterfly knife gracefully balanced between her fingers.

When she crouches down beside you, you instinctively flinch back, and your head hits the wall, but you don’t even feel the pain.

The woman stares at you, she narrows her eyes, unimpressed, then puts the glass down, within your reach - if you only could move.

Slowly, her now free hand lifts and hovers closer to you. You shut your eyes, waiting for a possible smack that never comes. Instead, you feel her gloved fingers gripping your face firmly, but not hard enough to hurt; she turns your head and your already sore neck gives in pretty quickly to the pressure. Then you feel the cold blade on your forehead and you force yourself to look.

Your eyes don’t leave her face when she pushes back a strand of hair with the blade. The woman looks serious, the tip of her tongue grazing lightly at her teeth as she inspects the wound on your head.

“You were drunk- absolutely wasted last night, m’eudail,” she comments dryly, almost disapprovingly, and finally you identify the thick Scottish accent in her voice. “I didn’t even push you that hard.” She adds, clicking her tongue. She releases you, retrieves her blade, and closes the knife with a quick flick of her wrist. “It’ll bruise, but you’ll be fine.”

You barely register her words. If you weren’t tied up and locked away in a small room with no windows, you’d even say she cares. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Now,” she smiles wickedly and in a blink, flickers her knife open again, the polished blade shining at the neons, “You behave like a good girl or I’ll slit that pretty throat of yours right away.” She shows you the blade again and gets closer to you. You let out another pathetic whimper when you feel the cold knife sliding between your cheeks and the rag in your mouth, then she turns it and you expect your skin to burn due to the cut, but instead, the fabric loosens around your face and falls on your chest, ruined.

Hardly believing you’re actually free to talk, you contemplate for a moment the idea of screaming or calling for help, but you already know it’s not a good choice: she’s obviously a professional and has a damn blade in her hand. The last thing you want is making her cross or indisposed.

The woman stares, purses her lips, seemingly satisfied with your choice.

You then try to move your aching jaw and there are tears pricking at your eyes when you attempt to swallow and your throat feels like sandpaper.

Then your abductor grabs the glass and holds it close to your face. You look up at her, questioningly, wondering if it’s drugged, or worse, straight-up poison, but then again if she wanted you dead, you would be already.

With your eyes never leaving her face, you lean forward and she brings the glass to your lips, tilting it slightly to ease your struggle; you drink greedily, fresh water soothing your throat and dribbling down your chin.

When the glass is empty, she takes it away, rest it on the floor once again, and you feel the leather of her glove wiping roughly at your chin, then giving you a swat on your cheek.

You blink in confusion, panting slightly and the absurdity of the situation and the dichotomy of her behavior, but maybe it’s all a show she’s putting up to further confuse you.

You feel invigorated, though, after the water, and you build up the courage to speak. At first, it’s just a tentative mumble, then she looks at you with her eyebrow crooked, urging you to go on with a somewhat aloof wince.

“Whoever you think I am,” you say, voice still hoarse, “you’ve got the wrong person.” It’s true: you’re not interesting, you have no debts, no sketchy friends. You’re a common person, even a boring one if you have to be honest.

She flashes her teeth again, narrowing her eyes, almost amused.

“No. Don’t think so.” She replies, and gives you a small wink.

Before you can even think of saying something back to her, she’s turning you roughly by your shoulder and you hear a snapping noise, then another, and another, and suddenly your shoulders are free to move and so are your legs, and your chest isn’t constricted by the rope anymore.

You ponder the idea of standing, pushing her aside from her vulnerable position since she’s still crouching, and run outside that open door, from where you can see what it look like the hallway - or a room - of an apartment, but as soon as you try to make the slightest movements, all your muscles scream in pain and you realize you won’t be able to attempt your escape.

The woman chuckles, as if she has the ability to read your mind, mocking you. She slowly raises up to her feet, collects the ropes, the bindings and lastly the empty glass. She closes her knife for good, sliding into the pocket of her coat.

You’re scared, confused, aching, but the thought of being locked again in that small room sends a jolt of panic straight to your head.

“What do you want?” You ask in haste.

She throws her head back, heaving a sharp breath.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport already.” She scolds.

You try to mutter something, think about begging her to give you something more to occupy yourself with, such as the reason _why_ you’ve been kidnapped and, more importantly, _who she is_. But the woman walks out of the room without paying much attention to you, and her gloved hand pushes the door close.  
You’re alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	3. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first line is drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde  
> For updates & extras about my stories, follow me on ista: lamarwy_ao3

DAY 3

“Behave.”

You struggle again, but you’re helpless with her weight on the small of your back where she’s sitting, pressing your front into the harsh grates of the floor.

She launched herself on you while you were standing, slowly pacing in circles in the small cell, and shoved you effortlessly on the ground. When you tried to move and protest, she pulled your arms down, pinning them to your sides with her tights clamped around you.

Now, for as much your try to wiggle away, she has you under her. You can feel the heat from her legs enveloping you and despite everything, it’s a welcomed change from the cold environment you’re forced to live in at the moment.

Yet, you know this is not the time to rejoice: you’re hurting again, the grates are hard against your chest and the thin tank top you’re wearing since the night of the abduction gives very little armor to your skin, which gets scraped with every tiniest movement.

Suddenly, you feel the click and the shuffle and twist your neck as far as you can to see the blade shining at the artificial lights.

She’s not impressed, and with her other hand, she fists your hair, shoving your face down. You mumble in pain when the grates hit your cheek and her leather glove pulls at your scalp.

When she releases you, you decide not to move your head back up, and finally stay still, panting.

You feel her tug at your top, yanking one of the shoulder straps, but she doesn’t pull it down, instead, she slices it with the knife, exposing the skin of your left shoulder. You feel her breathing close to you, her weight shifting as she leans forward to your body.

“Stay still now.” She purrs, but it’s clear that it’s a warning and you already know that whatever she intends to do now, it won’t be pleasant. “If it turns out wonky, I’ll be very cross.”

When she presses the blade into your skin, you cry out in pain.

You feel your flesh getting sever under the knife, and she goes deep, not only scraping at the outer skin - you know it not only because of the pain, but because you can feel the rivulets of warm blood tickling over your shoulder blade, down to your neck, and on the other side too, soaking the fabric of your top.

You clench your jaw when you think it’s over, and you breathe hard through your nose and mouth, struggling to fight the sharp pain. But it’s not over, and you feel her nudge at the cut - with the blade or her finger, you don’t know - separating the edges slowly.

“Almost done.” She tuts, voice so soft over your growls that you barely hear her.

When she sprays some cool liquid on your shoulder, you almost retch; the burning pain mixes with the strong scent of alcohol that crawls unpleasantly in your nostrils. You try to move away, you wiggle, but she’s stronger, and her thighs clamp your body tighter, knocking the air out of your lungs.

“I was going to praise you for being such a good girl, m’eudail.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Well, at least the line’s straight.” She states, clearly pleased with herself. You feel the side of the blade being wiped on your pants.

First a click, then a shuffle, and then she’s off of you, but once again, you’re too spent to even attempt the slightest movement.

You lay there, for hours maybe, listening to the rhythmic squeaks of the air vent above your head, patiently waiting for the pain to ebb away. And then you let out a wet sob and you cry a little, because - honestly - there’s nothing else you can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	4. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try, you fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde  
> For updates & extras about my stories, follow me on ista: lamarwy_ao3

DAY 4

You glance down at your bruised wrists.  
They don’t ache anymore, the joints are only a bit sore when you move, but it’s nothing compared to the sting you constantly feel on your left shoulder.

You tried to look, turning your neck as far as it would go, and you took a quick glance at the ruined strap of your top - now dangling off your arm, purposelessly - and, more importantly, at the angry gash that now appears on your skin: although it doesn’t bleed anymore, the wound is not healed, the raw flesh peeks underneath the cut where she has poked the edges apart, and there’s a red halo all around it. It doesn’t look infected, but you don’t want to tease your luck by reaching out to touch; not that you have the courage to actually touch, fearing the pain you would only procure yourself.

It’s going to scar, that’s for sure. A lifetime reminder of these days. Days. _Days_?

Time is a wild concept by now. You don’t know whether it is day or night and when your abductor visits, it’s only to bring you water.

The previous times, you gulped down obediently: on one hand, you knew - and still do - that refusing to drink would lead to some punishment involving that knife of hers, on the other, the water helped to quench that uncomfortable pang in your stomach, at least for a while.

You’re still hungry now of course since you don’t know the last time you ate something, but today things are different. After a sleepless night - was it a night? - which resulted in soaking half of your mattress with tears, you decided that the overwhelming despair washing over you in waves could only end up two ways: the first one, included vanishing completely, turning into a mere puppet for that woman who still doesn’t have a name, who still hasn’t told you the reason why you’re here, ceasing to exist like a human being and just accept your destiny; the second one, instead, included rebellion. Gather all the strength left in you, the courage, and even the insanity, and try to escape at the first given occasion. It’s risky, you could taste the blade again or even run into it and die, making all your efforts vain… but does it matter? Dying is better than this excruciating, inexplicable confinement.

Yes, you’ve made up your mind: next time she opens that door, you’ll try to run away.  
Where? That’s a different story.  
For now, you can only think about getting out of that cell and that apartment- or house? Where are you, exactly? You hope your legs can carry you far enough to call for help.

You start to pace around the small room, rub at your thighs, punch at the muscles to get the circulation flow, and ward off the numbness that had settled in your limbs in the last few days.  
While you walk, you tentatively try to move your arms and shoulders too. The right one doesn’t hurt, as for the left, it’s an entirely different matter. Feels like you’re tearing apart the tissue, it’s like having the blade in your flash all over again. You clench your teeth and keep trying until you’re comfortable enough with the pain and you can move fairly easily.

You start to count: from one to a hundred and then backward, going in sync with the squeaky vent. _One_ step, _one_ squeak, _one_ roll of your shoulders.

You don’t know how many times you’ve counted, how many steps you’ve taken, how many rolls of your shoulders, how many hisses you heaved when you moved slightly different and tugged at the wound, but suddenly, you hear something coming from beneath the door.

It’s a rare occasion, you would swear she leaves you alone in there for hours at least, but when she’s approaching, you can always tell by the metallic sounds, the quick _beep_ that precedes the shutter release of the door unlocking.

One breath, two, three.

 _Beep_.

One, two.

The door was unlocked.

You push yourself in the further wall on the cell, plant your hands on it.

When the door cracks open, you launch yourself toward it, without thinking twice.

You don’t register closing your eyes as you prepare for the collision.

When your left shoulder, already sore, hit part of the door, you see stars; when your body impacts with something softer, you hear a rattling noise, something falling, and a grunt.

You snap your eyes open and take a glimpse of the surroundings - the bare corridor, a few wall lamps, a painting - but before you can command your legs to move, to run as fast as you can, out of that damn place, you feel restricted.

“Nice try.” The woman growls, her arms wrapping your torso, pinning your arms to your sides. You try to wiggle, but despite her petite physique, she’s _strong_ and keeps you there with very little effort. “Feisty little thing.” She snarls behind clenched teeth.

You gasp, tears pricking at your eyes for your sheer failure. You want to yell, and cry, and beg her to let you go or ask, again, what are you doing there, what does she want from you, but just a pitiful whine escapes your lips, much to her amusement.

When the woman starts to walk, you’re forced to follow her movement, and you awkwardly step backward into your cell again.

“You’re too weak for that.” She says, patronizingly, as if to prove her point, she unpeels her arms from your body and gives you a little push.

You know it’s not a hard one, but you lose balance and you stumble, clawing messily at the wall while sliding down to the grated floor, your hand clasping to your left arm as your wounded shoulder throbs with pain.

Your eyes never leave her when she slightly spins on her heels and clicks her tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, look what you made me do.” She croons giving you a mocking pout, head tilted to the side.

You follow her glance and swallow thickly when you notice the metallic plate reversed on the moquette right outside your cell, a glass chipped beside it, water soaked into the carpet, and what looks like eggs and some greens scattered everywhere.

Your mouth water instantly and your stomach grumbles so loudly you know she heard it. The woman smirks down at you and shoves her hand into her pocket.

You know a punishment of some sort is in order, you’ve budgeted it before when planning your absurd escape, but now, you’re questioning everything: you don’t want her to use her knife on your body again, even if she had a valid motive now and yesterday - was it yesterday? - she had none.

Instead, she just stands there, leaning slightly back, merely striking a pose.

“I should let you eat off the floor.” She offers, eyes narrow. “I know you’re hungry.”

You are. But the idea of being on all four by her feet, eating like a dog, has you shudder. You _won’t_ do it.

“It’s still warm.” She encourages, but you don’t move. Does she _want_ you to eat?

“No.” You bring yourself to say, and your throat is dry because you haven’t taken your dose of water in a long time. “Thank you.” You add, struggling to say it in the meekest way possible.

The woman clenches her jaw, unimpressed. She leaves you on the floor, spins on her heels, and closes the door behind her and you feel her cursing on the other side as she collects the broken glass and the plate.

You failed your escape, but even if you don’t know why exactly, you feel somewhat victorious anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	5. Day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 5

The woman brings your water and food on a metal plate. This time, it’s something different that has you dumbstruck: it’s your favorite dish, just how you like it.

It’s disturbing, but it must be a coincidence, so you try to stay focused: your stomach grumbles? Not a problem. Your mouth salivates? No, you are _not_ hungry.

You shut your eyes, turning your head stubbornly to the side.

The woman crouches beside you, hands you over the plate and it smells simply delicious, but you manage to gently push it back with your fingers.

It doesn’t surprise you when she pulls her knife out and rests it just below your jaw, pushing slightly so you feel the sharp blade scraping your skin.

You clench your teeth when she presses harder and you’re sure she has opened a cut somewhere, even if just superficially.

Still, you don’t move, focused on fighting the pangs of hunger in your stomach.

A _click_ , and then a _shuffle_.

She leaves the plate on the floor by your bed before upping and going, grunting frustratedly.

“Eat.” She commands, and locks the door.

It’s torture, but you resist: she’s eager to get something into your body, so it must mean something - at the very least, that she _wants_ you to stay alive.

She is in charge, of course, she is, but what if you also have some power in this situation? This might be your only weapon against her: she wants you to eat? Very well, then you _won’t_ eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	6. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Swallow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 6

You clutch your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around your legs, almost protectively. You cling to yourself for dear life, cocooning into your own limbs since you don’t have anything else to use as a shield.

“You don’t want to make me cross.” The woman hisses behind clenched teeth.

She’s crouching beside you, the metal place and the glass of water between the two of you. She’s nudged at the food already, poking the banana slices with the tip of her knife to let you smell the fruity scent, and as soon as it reaches your nostrils, you almost faint.

“Why am I here?” You dare to ask with a small chirp, in the mere illusion that the low volume of your voice can make her less angry despite the insubordination of talking without being addressed to.

The woman drops her head forward, releasing a sharp sigh.

“You’ll figure it out. Now,” when she lifts her head back up, her blue eyes are sparkling, “you have to eat.”

You support her gaze, trying to look determined, even if your heart is galloping furiously inside your chest. You’re almost sure she can hear that, because you certainly can - inside your ears, in your neck, inside your head.

“I don’t want to eat.” You insist, lying because everything in your body tells you to put something in your stomach and, most importantly, some water: there’s a constant throbbing in your head now and your urine is dark. It’s getting serious; you know it. And she does too.

You clutch tighter at yourself, fighting the shivers and the pangs in your stomach. No, you can’t give up now: it’s the only way to get answers, and it’s clear to you, at this point, that she considers you valuable for some reason. Starving doesn’t scare you and neither does dying of dehydration, which seems incredibly prone to happen.

“Well, you must.” The woman insists and, against all odds, you hear the click and the shuffle of her knife being closed. “You  _ will _ .” She says, and it’s a promise she intends to fulfill.

While one gloved hand fists at the banana on the plate, the other reaches your shoulder. The left one. Your eyes widen in panic, your brain struggles but comprehends what she’s about to do: she nudges her thumb - or whichever other finger - into the healing gash on your shoulder. Taken by surprise and unable to fight the unbearable pain otherwise, you part your lips into a strangled cry. However, your scream is promptly muffled by the food she has shoved into your mouth, and she keeps it in there, by covering the lower part of your face with her gloved hand. You try to spit the banana as a reflex, you try to wiggle, but you’re helpless against her hold.

“Swallow.” She orders, and her voice is incredibly calm, almost gentle. Odd, if compared with the violence of her actions.

Tears prickle at your eyes when you start struggling again: your throat begins to convulse, and you have only the option to compel, swallowing your food, or else choke on it.

You swallow; she smiles.

“Open up, now.” The woman purrs, slowly unpeeling her hand from your mouth and shaking it to get rid of small pieces of banana mixed with your saliva.

You pant, cough, and when she lifts the glass to your face, you try to get some of your lost control back and close your mouth again. Unimpressed, but seemingly not surprised either, she presses her thumb and forefinger into your muscles until she forces your jaw to unclench. Water slides down your throat before you can even register what’s happening.

“See, that wasn’t that so bad.” She says, almost praising you, the back of her glove wiping at your chin, but she’s not rough this time.

You’re still coughing water everywhere when she stands up, leaving the plate and the remnants of the sliced banana there.

“I’ll get you more water.” She croons. “I want that plate clean when I come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	7. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She pulls, you follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 7 

“Rise and shine.” When she twists your arms backward, you’re barely awake.

There are times where you can hear her approach, some tingle in your stomach tells you she’s coming, almost like a sixth sense; others, instead, she appears inside the cell as if by magic.

You’re still reversed on the small mattress, face-down in the position you fell asleep, but now your shoulders ache under her pull, and you’re mildly aware of the binding she’s using to tie your wrists together: something tough and thin that dugs painfully into your skin - perhaps a cable tie.

Panic starts to rise in your throat with the bile. Perhaps this is it: she’s had enough of you, she’s finally realized you’re just a boring person that has no interesting information, nor cherishes some international secret; you’re just you and she’s about to get rid of a burden.

When the woman hoists you up, your legs are weak, but you manage to stand up at the end, even if the majority of your weight is held up by her, pulling on your right upper arm with one hand - is it a chance or is she minding your wound? -, the other hooking in the bound around your wrists. The slightest of tugs is enough to make you wince in pain, so when she pulls toward the open door of the cell, you follow her, stumbling.

Are you really going to your death? How is she going to get rid of you? Her knife? A bullet in your temple? She’s going to throw you out of the window and make it look like a suicide? Is she going to blindfold you, toss you in a van and let a train run over you? Is she going to make you swallow an entire package of antipsychotics and make you look like an addict?

“Where are you taking me?” You manage to croak out, trying to stand the ground in despair.

She pushes a hand in the middle of your back, urging you out of the cell, and into the corridor, which you see clearly and in its entirety for the first time.

Then you hear a faint chuckle.

“You’re beginning to stink, m’eudail.” She says calmly, and you blink in dismay.

You’re aware you haven’t showers in a day - how many days exactly you don’t know - but for some reason, you never thought she could care for something like your personal hygiene: in your head, either she would’ve let you go sooner or you would’ve died before it could even become an issue. You were wrong, again.

That woman is a mystery and the more you try to understand her, the more unpredictable she becomes.

Steering you right into a small room that serves as both parlor and kitchen, both decorated with modern furniture, she leads you into a small corridor and, finally, to the bathroom. Is she showing you her apartment, in a sick, twisted way? Why hasn’t she blindfolded you? As you walked, you saw outside: you’re in a skyscraper or in a relatively high building and even if you couldn’t recognize exactly where, with that small glimpse you took, you imagine you’re still in New York.

“Thought you might fancy a shower.” Her voice pulls you out of your illogic thoughts of possible breakaway and you just stand there, swallowing, not completely sure what you are supposed to do, all tied up like that. Stepping into the shower box with your filthy clothes on? The answer comes to you pretty fast: - _click, swish_ \- the other strap of your tank top is gone under her blade and now your top pools around your waist, ruined; next is your bra, cut down straight in the middle, and the straps, too. You shrink on yourself, instinctively trying to cover your breasts, but there’s very little you can do about it.

The woman bares her teeth, complacent.

Her eyes don’t roam on your body when she tugs everything down, what’s left of your top, your leggings, your panties even, but you feel her gaze upon you nonetheless.

You’re eager to wash, the thought is incredibly enthralling, but if that’s the treatment in exchange for a shower, you’re not sure it’s worth it.

When she’s done, lifting one foot and then the other for you as she removes your socks and sneakers, you feel incredibly bare - and you are, completely naked, shivering, in front of your abductor, the same wicked woman who has hurt you before. She could kill you in a thousand different ways before you can even have the chance to blink.

“Come on.” She says, and there’s an unnecessary shade of mirth in her voice when she tilts her head to the side, gesturing to the shower with her chin.

You glance at her one last time, then you obey, realizing there’s very little room to do anything else, and you step into the open cabin.

“Face to the wall.” She specifies, and this time her tone is harsher.

You do, enter and face the wall, compliantly waiting for _something_. You’re expecting her to turn on the shower and let the water rain on you, but instead, you hear her moving behind your back and the noises have you wince in complete dazzlement - the rustling of fabric, a belt being unbuckled, a zip pulled, the thuds of boots being thrown away - is she…? No, there’s no way in Hell, she-

You freeze when you feel the heat of another body entering the shower. In the perfect stillness and silence of the bathroom, the shower door closing makes you feel trapped, again, in an even more confined space than your cell.

Has she brought the knife with her in there too? By now, you perceive it as an extension of her hand, so it wouldn’t surprise you.

You glance down at an empty hand while she reaches out to turn the tap.

The water is scalding hot and falls directly on your head and front, and it’s soothing and startling at the same time, and incredibly intimate and you feel vulnerable, so much in fact, that you forget how to breathe for a moment.

You fidget, trying to move away from under the stream of water, but her hand grips your right shoulder tight enough it would hurt if she were gripping on your left one.

“Stay.” She commands with a small voice, barely above a whisper, but it’s commanding nonetheless and, bound like you are, you’re no more than a puppy learning its first order; not daring to test your owner’s strictness - and punishment - you _stay_.

You barely register the noise of a cap popping open above the running water, but when her hands meet your skin, you realize they’re soapy. There’s nothing tender, nor sensual in the way her fingers rake at your body, and you shut your eyes close, uncomfortable, while she’s all over you: on your back, your right shoulder, your thighs.

“Spread your legs.”

The command has you blush profusely. You snap your eyes open, and before you can even think about a protest, you feel her knee nudge between the back of your thighs, and a primordial instinct to keep your balance to prevent slipping and hurt yourself, makes you do it, giving in under her poking.

You can feel her chuckle in amusement while she washes you thoroughly, and then her hands slip to your front too - your crotch, your stomach, your breasts - and you’re aware that she’s _behind_ you and that she’s _naked_ , and before you can fully process it, you feel her body brushing against your constricted arms.

You try to conceal a frustrated sigh behind clenched teeth: it’s all too deliberate and you’re hating it- hating it... because it’s non-consensual touching or because you can’t touch in return? The thought has you dumbstruck.

Suddenly, you feel a grip on your throat, and when she pulls at your chin, forcing you to tilt your head backward, you shoot wide eyes at her. Her upside-down face bears a focused expression while her fingers poke at the wound on your forehead.

“This one won’t scar.” She comments with a concentrated hum. Then she releases you. “Can’t say the same for this one, though.” She adds then, and there’s a tinge of pride in her voice now.

While clean water wipes the soap away from your body, you wince and fidget while she wipes your left shoulder with a damp towel and she’s incredibly careful while she does that. Something you didn’t believe she had in her - but apparently, she does. And that attentiveness has you even more confused: she _gave_ you that cut, she _wants_ it to scar, but now she’s wiping at the wound with incredible care.

You just don't get her. And you still don’t why you’re valuable to her… if you’re valuable at all; what tells you she’s not just playing with you, as if you were her human pet or something?

“Why am I here?” You dare to ask in a small voice, forcing the hot water that entered your mouth out of your lips.

“In due time,” She says, and she’s not vexed this time, barely explaining in a low voice, the towel discarded, and now her fingers are raking through your hair, working on the knots, massaging your scalp, “you’ll know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	8. Day 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 8

Curling your toes on the bare mattress, you look around the small vault once more.

By now, you’ve counted all the small holes in the floor grates, you know how many bolts are on the door, how many seconds it takes for the toilet to flush and you’re starting to pity yourself more than ever. You’re bored out of your mind and think about all the possibilities, once again, wonder why you’re here and why doesn’t she just reveals her intentions or simply put an end to your misery - it would be an act of kindness, by now, and you know there is something similar to mercy in her bones, but you also know she uses it as she pleases.

There’s nothing else for you to do but wait. She said  _ you’ll know _ , _in due time_ , what is your purpose, which means when she’ll decide to involve you actively in whatever plan she has in mind. Until then… you wait.

Slumping back on the wall behind you, you rub your hands on your thighs, enjoying the soft fabric of your new leggings - she gave you those after that bewildering shower - and you tug at your t-shirt, also new, one of those _I love NY_ that you always saw in movies but never owned because it’s just ridiculous to wear one, but you are now and you have to admit it’s comfortable enough.

Closing your eyes, you start to play with your hair. It’s an old habit you grew out of it years ago, but now you’re thirsty for any kind of distraction. You bite on the strand and suddenly frown at the smell that reaches your nostril. During that shower, so focused on the rough treatment she was giving you, you haven't noticed, but the scent of the shampoo that now lingers in your hair resembles the one you use back in your own apartment. That’s strange - a coincidence, for your kidnapper to have the same taste in hygiene products? Or is it your strained brain playing tricks on you? That is more likely.

You let go of your hair then, and study your nails: they’re not too long to the point they’re uncomfortable, but they’ve grown, and perhaps it’s the only way you can tell some days have passed; you wince at the chipped nail polish and laugh silently at yourself when the memory pops up in your mind. You don’t remember much of that night - the woman was right when she told you were drunk - but you remember getting ready for going out, choosing the black varnish in one pitiful attempt to look edgy… and look how well it turned out.

Putting all your efforts in it, you decide to scrape it off with your teeth and you do it with precision until your nails are bare.

Now that you’re done, however, you feel hollow again. If only she gave you something to do, anything, besides stare into the nothing like that. You have a long sigh, then curl on the mattress and fall asleep despite the neon light always kept on.

You used to dream, at first, providing yourself some distractions, but lately, it’s always that woman and her eyes staring down at you, she’s there, talking nonsense, her hands over you, laughing, pushing her blade into your flesh, tormenting you.

And in some irrational way, keeping you company as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	9. Day 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vent malfunction leads to something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 9 

When you first smell the smoke, you tilt up your head and frown.

The air vent that kept you company with its vexing squeaks is now a vessel for a grey cloud of smoke that is entering your cell. It’s fast and thick and makes your eyes sting.

There are no windows in your cell and the door is heavy and probably even hermetic, and your only source of oxygen is, instead, allowing poisonous smoke in.

The air around you becomes dense in a matter of seconds. You start to cough, clawing at your neck, but that doesn’t help - maybe you’re even making it worse.

You start to panic, your mind runs wild, back to your childhood memories, the basic rules of survival carved into your brain.

In case of fire: stop, drop, and roll. In case of smoke? Stay low to the ground.

You throw yourself face down on the mattress, then slide on the floor, pushing your cheek on the hard grates, breathing with your mouth open. It works - you can breathe slightly better - but you know there’s not much time: your small cell is flooded with smoke now and you’re going to suffocate.

You crawl to the door, hoping the woman is around, or close enough to hear you. Is she aware of the situation? Does she have a camera to spy on you? Or is she the cause of that smoke and that’s just one of her experiments? Has she finally decided to end your miserable existence? It can be anything, but you have to try.

“Please!” You bang your fist on the door. “There’s smoke in here-” you shout as loud as you can, but the effort makes you consume more oxygen, and you start coughing again.

You’re crying now, for the smoke in your eyes, for the pain in your throat, for the needles in your lungs, making you feel like you’re drowning and suffocating and burning all at once.

“Help!” Another bang and all your strengths seem to drain instantly from your body. “ _Please_!” You repeat, but your voice is not loud anymore. “I can’t breathe.” In your brain, you’re shouting, but in reality, you’re only whispering.  
Your head is heavy and so are your eyelids; you know you should keep them open, make an effort to stay awake, but it’s so difficult you let the desperation take over you. And what’s the point, anyway?

You barely register the mechanical noises, the beeps, and the cogs unlocking. A hand fists the back of your t-shirt, hauling you on your hands and knees, and out of instinct, you crawl pitifully out of the door, trudging your own limbs.

An arm wraps around your torso and you’re suddenly hoisted upright, but your knees are too weak, and your head spins, making it difficult for you to make out the up from the down, your left from your right. Sounds are muffled - is someone talking?

You cough again struggling to follow her lead, and when you blink your eyes open, you can see a bay-window, and you feel the soft padding underneath your body when you’re boosted on the cushions.

When she opens a small crack, pulling at one of the hoppers, you take a long breath of cool air that smells of the city, and it’s rich and soothing as it fills your lungs. You gasp, knuckles turning white with the effort of pushing away the horrible sensation of drowning on yourself, the smoke dense in your body, pricking at your eyes, tightening around your throat, coaxing death upon you.

“There, there.” You hear her voice behind your ear, almost crooning as she cards a hand through your hair with unexpected tenderness. "Deep breaths."

When she splays her hand on your front and tugs you against her, your erratic pants bleed into long intakes of air as you follow the raising of her chest against your back.

You stare at her while she works inside the cell. Tied up on a chair with a loose rope - as if only for good measure - you’re still by the window, breathing through your nose. She’s perched on a small ladder, cursing as she uses utensil on the vent until it begins to squeak again and, this time, only fresh air blows in.

 _There has been some malfunction_ , she says, _but now it’s all good_.

She has a small camera to watch over, in case of emergencies like that, she said, and you know it’s true, that she’s watching.

In an absurd, twisted way, now you know that despite the inhumane conditions she keeps you, you’re somehow safe.

So when she unties you from the chair and gently pushes you through the corridor and leaves you in front of your cell, you look at her, eyebrow lifted, questioning; still, no sound escapes your lips. 

“In you go.” She urges with an unnecessary playful voice.

You do.

Without any further pressure from her, you simply step in and let her close the door behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	10. Day 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second line is drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde  
> insta: lamawry_ao3

DAY 10

She’s put you in the shower again, stripped of your clothes, but instead of turning the shower on, she’s pushed you down, making you sit on the cold china below, and freed your wrists.

You felt cold, so you instinctively collected your knees up and rested your chin atop of them, arms clutching at your own legs, leaving your back wantonly exposed and vulnerable.

The thought of fighting and attempting to flee crossed your mind in the exact moment she snapped the cable wire looping your wrists with her blade, but it quickly faded away: what was the point in going away? You would never succeed in the first place and you would only accomplish to make her cross with you. You don’t want that. 

You’re aware of her presence behind you: you feel some strange energy radiating from her body whenever she’s near - is it fear for her, or the illogical need to know more of her intentions, or of her altogether, you don’t know. What you do know is that in addition to wondering what does she want from you, you’ve asked that question a lot, lately: who is she?

“Bite this.”

You lift your gaze, and your eyes focus on her hand, gloveless, stretched in front of your face. In her palm, there’s a small piece of leather.  
She inches her hand closer to your mouth and, frowning, you immediately get the cue to part your lips and you do, almost obediently, wincing when you feel her fingers pressing into your mouth as she stuffs the leather deep, pushing it between your morals.

You let out a pitiful groan, biting down on it instinctively - it's not too hard, not too big in your mouth, but just  _ right _ .

You can almost see her smiling behind you.

For a moment, you wonder what she has in mind, then you feel a finger ghost over the wound on your left shoulder, and it’s still raw and sensitive, so you shift away just slightly.

You hear her click her tongue disapprovingly; and it’s not the only thing that clicks: her blade does, with the disturbing sound that rings in your ears constantly.

“In.” She says softly.

You frown, lost, not fully comprehend what she means by that, what does she want you to do. Then you feel the sharp blade pressing on your skin; still on your left shoulder and it pricks but you’re not sure if she intends to reopen the old wound or create another one - you convince yourself it’s the latter option.

So you do understand now, and the piece of leather between your teeth suddenly makes sense, and you bite on it, while you get a deep intake of air like she commanded - or suggested?

You feel when your skin raptures. The leather does very little and you claw at your legs, your eyes well up, your muscles tense.

“Don’t fight it.” She croons, moving faster, drawing - presumably - another line, steadily and firmly in your flesh.

You try to do as she says, the burning pain clouding your mind, but you manage to relax your shoulders a bit, grounding yourself on the warm hand that has come to rest on the nape of your neck when you bowed your head on your knees.

“Almost done.” She reassures. “Out.” You immediately release the breath you were holding, waves of pain washing over your body, making you shiver.

“You’re doing good.” She says and you let out a few breathy pants. Was that a praise? She honestly seemed impressed.

Whatever thought might’ve popped into your mind, although, is knocked out when she nudges at the new cut with her fingers, and just like the first time, she separates the edges. You whine around your makeshift gag, tears start to fall down your eyelashes and warm blood trails down your back, pooling beneath you before channeling into the drain into a crimson, thick river.

The pain constricts your stomach, the smell makes you nauseous, but her voice, somehow, pulls you out from the fog.

You can picture her cleaning and putting away her knife -  _ click _ ,  _ shuffle _ .

“It’s going to sting,” She warns, and you hear a bottle being uncapped, “but only for a moment.”

You see stars when the disinfectant burns your skin and the strong smell makes your head light, but just as she said, it only lasts a moment: she’s dabbing something soft on your sore shoulder, some other liquid but it’s cold and takes some of the pain away. You release a wet sigh.

Exhausted, you spit out the lather while she washes your back with water, rinsing all the blood off your skin.

You feel her hot breath on your skin while she inspects your wound.

“You took it so well, m’eudail.” She tuts, hoisting you up, and her hold is firm but surprisingly gentle as well, grounding, steady.

She dries you with a soft towel, minding your shoulder - wiping off the blood that still trails down from the gash, and then, this time, she presses something sticky and slightly scratchy on your shoulder.

You wince at the sudden pain, but mostly your jaw hangs in surprise: has she really bothered to patch you up with a real bandage?

You wince in confusion, then carefully wear your t-shirt.  
When she tells you to, you step into your cell and let her close the door on your back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	11. Day 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good girls brush their teeth before going to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 11

You’re pacing around your cell. Up and down, back and forth, in endless loops.

You tried some gymnastics - stretching your limbs, leaning against the door for push-ups, squatting down to awaken your numb legs - but you gave up pretty fast: you felt stupid, and made you feel like one of those criminals who trained in their cells like in the movies; also, you suddenly remember she has a camera and she can be watching any moment and the thought of her laughing at you while staring at her screen makes your stomach turn in embarrassment.

You’re not a criminal. You’re not a joke for her. But are you a victim? _Her_ victim, perhaps? You’ve gone through your mind hundreds of times already, but you can’t actually remember that night, and besides, you feel the reason is much more complicated than it actually seems. Is someone taking revenge on you? Who did you wrong so badly? You’ve never hurt a fly in your life.

You hit the wall with your hand, palm flat against the padded wall, and you wince in pain when you feel a tight pull at your left shoulder, which fades into an uncomfortable burn and pricking. Thinking about yesterday - was it yesterday? - you can still feel the blade on your skin, nudging in your flesh, you can feel the warm blood pooling underneath you, you can feel your teeth biting into the leather, her fingers on your shoulders, her voice,  _ her voice _ , in your ear.

You can’t believe you let her do it, but you did - and without complaining  _ too much _ .

Maybe you’re not a victim per se, but you’re complicit because you’re letting her do those things to you, because you stopped fighting and wishing to be released: you just exist, there, in your cell, yearning for the next mysterious event that she has in store for you: some food, a shower, another cut - you don’t care, as long as it’s something.

So when you hear the familiar sound of her imminent visit, you’re irrationally  _ eager _ \- for the possible outcomes, for the sound of something besides your own breathings and frantic mutterings, for her presence, for _her_.

You pity yourself, but you can’t help it.

When she appears on the door, black yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt of the same color, you are already up on your feet, curiously studying her peculiar attire: you’re so used to seeing her with the leather coat and gloves that you almost feel she’s another person.

Then she bares her teeth, amused, and your heart ease.  _ Pathetic _ .

She tilts her head to the side and clicks her tongue playfully.

“Good girls brush their teeth before going to bed.” She says.

So it’s night. Or evening. Somewhere close to bedtime - you haven’t had one since you were fifteen, but the thought of having one again is surprisingly comforting.

She sees your confusion, so she steps slowly into the cell. When she does, you know the time for hesitancy is through: it’s time to obey and compel to her every little whim. Do you mind? Not really since it’s a nice distraction.

You turn your back to her, diligently pressing your wrist together on the small of your back, waiting for her to tie the cable wire around them.

She doesn’t.

You hold your breath when you feel her hand - and it’s gloveless, and warm, and rough and soft at the same time - sliding in yours, tugging you, making you spin. You follow her outside without uttering a word, and when you’re in the corridor, she urges you to walk. She hasn’t tied you, but her other hand is clawing your left shoulder; she’s above the wound, but you’re aware of her fingers there, you’re aware she can make your knees buckle with just a slight pressure if she wants you: not tied, but at her mercy nonetheless.

As you walk, you glance outside the window and you sigh imperceptibly when you notice the colorful sunset beaming on the tall buildings of your city. You miss being outside, you miss the real world, but it can be scary, at times - scarier than being inside, with her? Hardly.

“The purple one.” She says, pushing you slightly in the bathroom.

You glance around and spot the toothbrush resting in the cup on the sink, next to a similar one, though blue. Both have caps on. It’s startling domestic and you blink, dumbstruck.

When you turn back to her, even just to mutter a word, you catch a glimpse of her closing the door; the lock doesn’t click.

Is she out there, waiting for you? Has she gone into another room? Would you find an empty corridor, if you decide to open the door and try to flee? Or is it just another game, and she’s waiting for you with her knife, ready to jam it into your chest if you attempt to run? You’re not eager to find out the answer to that.

You approach the sink and let the water run, the minty flavor soothing as you scrub your teeth one by one with care, hating that layer of tartar that has formed. When you spit out, you finally feel clean.

You put your toothbrush back into the cup, and you frown when you see the blue one laying there too, your gaze gravitating on the mirror above the sink, your imagination tricking you into seeing her face instead of yours, brushing her teeth with the blue toothbrush.

You shake your head violently and upon noticing she hasn’t returned yet, you decide to remove your t-shirt and give your back to the sink. Turning your head as far as it would go, you stare at the square bandage glued to your shoulder: the white patch is stained with a shapeless spot of dark red and you can easily guess exactly where her blade has sliced your skin.

You scrape at one corner with your nail, wincing when your skin tightens, but you keep going, working the tip of your finger under the sticky side and then you  _ pull _ . You gasp, the surprise mixing with the pain of the ripped bandage and the soreness of your shoulder due to the awkward angle you’re standing. 

You gulp down, blink away the few tears, and inspect your once smooth skin.  
There’s dried blood around the area, but you’re interested in the wounds: the older cut is still red but healing, while the new one is raw, rough flesh peeking from beneath the gush; they’re both straight cuts as if made with a ruler - you can’t believe she’s drawn those with her free hand both times with you wiggling and fidgeting in pain, it’s impressive - they’re parallel, a few inches apart, of the same length.

You frown: is she branding you? Keeping track or something, like the prisoners draw lines in their cells? But those can’t be two days… maybe two weeks? It felt more like two years.

How many more lines will she draw on your skin? To what end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	12. Day 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different night routine is set up for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 12

You put away your purple toothbrush, you wash your face, and get ready to go back to your cell like yesterday. You hoped she would bring you out each evening and since she’s let you out today as well, you’re glad she seems to plan to do just that: even if it feels yard time, at least it’s a nice change, an excuse to walk, clean yourself, and even peek outside the window and glance at the city you love so much.

When you put the towel on the hanger and glance at the mirror, you see her behind you, grinning face above your shoulder, and you startle, clawing at your throat to suppress the gasp building there.

“We should let it breathe, what do you think?” She says, tilting her head to the side, and you know she’s looking at your shoulder. “I’ll wash the shirt.” She declares before even letting you time to formulate an answer, snatches your (only) shirt from the other hanger, and disappears in the corridor.

You frown when you notice she’s left the door open.

You fold your arms against your chest, already feeling cold and wondering how you would survive the night with nothing to cover yourself; you highly doubt she has a heating system in that small cell. This will surely be a long night.

You scoff, unimpressed, when you hear her steps approaching, but she never shows up to collect you. Are you allowed to step outside the bathroom? Are you supposed to look for her? You’d call for her, if only you’d know her name.

You carefully walk toward the door and peek outside. The woman is standing there, crossed arms over a loose shirt, legs parted, her yoga pants too long, pooling at her feet in ample rolls.

You swallow at her grin and you can feel it in your stomach that she’s daring you… to do something.

You start to walk in front of her without moving too fast - nor too slow - and diligently make your way to where you know your cell is.

It’s closed.

You frown a little, push on the metallic door even if you know it won’t move, and finally turn back, throwing a sheepish gaze at her, almost as if it’s your fault, almost as if you’re apologizing.

The woman, however, doesn’t pay attention to you - she’s not even _looking_ at you.

“Not there.” She says simply, surpassing you.

You can’t help but notice the provocative swaying of her hips as she does that, and you’d swear she’s putting a show for you when she reaches inside her pocket, eliciting a chiming noise.

She’s walking to a side of the apartment you haven’t seen yet, and when she stops in front of an open door, leaning her shoulder against the frame, you freeze, utterly confused. What is she doing? What is she trying to tell you?

“Don’t be shy, go on in.” She urges, gesturing you to obey with a stern glare and a subtle bob of her head.

You’re curious, mildly scared for the consequences if you keep her waiting longer, so you do obey.

You blink, not believing your eyes when you step in.

It’s a room.  
It's a _real room_ with a bed and a window and a chair by a desk, and it’s all simple and minimal, but it’s beautiful, to you, so much that you feel welling up and gratitude building warm within you.

“Good night, m’eudail.” The woman says, and before you can turn back and thank her - should you actually thank her for showing a little humanity? - she slides out the door, locking it from the outside.

It’s fair: after days, weeks - how many? - spent in a cell, you should be expecting her to at least _lock_ you in a room.  
And, in all honesty, you're glad she did: like this, you feel oddly comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	13. Day 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You receive a gift.  
>  ~~cause it's Christmas and **Miranda** feels kind.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 13

It’s morning when you wake up, and even if you don’t know what time it is, the light coming from the outside is a marvellous change that almost brings tears to your eyes. You’re almost overwhelmed when you scramble off your bare mattress and rush to the window, the city below awakening with you, people running in the streets, small like ants, totally unaware of you.

You sigh, briefly wondering where the woman is or what is she doing - is she spying on you through one of her cameras?

You frown, holding your own elbows, and try to inspect every corner in search of something suspicious, but nothing strange is visible anywhere. Almost disappointed, you let your glance roam around the small room taking in the bed, the chair, and the desk… the desk, which is not empty. Was that thing on there last night too?

You get closer, inspect the narrow book laying there, perfectly in line with the edge of the table, and gasp when you turn it, revealing the quote on the front: you’ve been eyeing that notebook for days, considering buying it but then deciding against it because you had plenty unused one in your apartment already. Seeing it in your hand sent a chill down your spine because that couldn’t be a random thing to happen: it was a notebook you saw, you wanted to buy it and you didn’t and now it’s there, brought it to you from your abductor. In your mind, flashes the time she brought you your favourite dish to coax you into eating. It’s anything but random.

There is so much more under the surface, and you are sure you’re only peeking at the tip of the iceberg.

When you hear the door unlock, you jerk away, startle, and let the notebook fall to the ground when she slides in, a steaming mug in her hand, her blue eyes boring into you, then drifting down by your feet.

She’s wearing her coat, her leather boots, her back usual outfit and looks dangerous - so much in fact, that you fear she might smack you for dropping her gift.

Instead, she doesn’t say anything.

She puts the mug on the desk and crouches down, retrieving the notebook and settling it back on the desk, just beside the mug, adjusting it with her gloved finger so it’s perfectly aligned again.

“You followed me?” The words roll out of your tongue before you can even control yourself. You step away just for safety because now you’re sure she’ll smack you because you’re being insolent and careless.

The woman stares at you, then she bares her teeth, curving her lips into a broken grin.

“You don’t look outraged.” She says, and it’s not a question, it’s a statement.

You support her gaze, mouth moving without producing any sound. Because she is right: you are not outraged. You know you should be, but you’re simply not.

“Who do you think watched your back all those evenings when you dragged yourself to your apartment completely drunk and left the door open?” She scoffs, amusement creeping out her voice when your face tightens, the revelation of her following you more than once, like a shadow, slowly sinking in. For how long? How come you never noticed?

“Honestly, you would have been dead already hundreds of times without me.” She scoffs, folding her arms.

You swallow, unable to utter a reply. You feel extremely exposed, maybe even more than when she had you naked in her shower, her hands all over you as she soaped your skin. Deep down, you know she’s right and you’re grateful - is it logical? - that she had your back for all that time, watching over you, keeping you out of harm’s way? You’re grateful, even if you know she might have physically harmed you more than you could ever do by yourself in those days of imprisonment.

“Thank you.” You mutter, and your head begins to spin. You’re not outraged although you should be, you’re grateful... flattered? All of those, or none? What you know for sure, is that you’re curious to know why you elicit so much interest in a woman like that, to have her following you around - the most correct word would be stalked, but then again, she took care of you in a way, so the definition is really a fitting one? - for her to snatch you from your life and have you secluded into her apartment. What makes you so valuable to her eyes? What makes you special? Because you know you’re not any of those things, not even remotely.

“I might even give you a pen for that.” She says softly, almost luring. She fishes inside the pocket of your coat and retrieves a pen - not just any, but your favourite, from your apartment no doubt. “If you ask me nicely.” She adds.

You do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	14. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get up."  
>  ~~Merry Xmas, you sapphic pervs. I love ya sm.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 14 

You thought she was going to take you eating your breakfast in the kitchen, with her perhaps, perched on one of her stools, instead of slurping the cereal alone in your room, but instead, she slammed you down on the floor before you could even enter the space, your cheek pressed on the carpet that runs along the corridor just outside your room.

You writhe and kick, the confusion slowly ebbing away to be replaced but the throbbing pain of her pressing on the small of your back, one hand pulling your left arm up, twisting it with not much force, but enough to make the skin on your shoulder feel tight and uncomfortable.

“Get up.” She snarls between clenched teeth, and maybe it’s supposed to be a dare, a challenge, or a test even, but you only perceive it as an order.

So you try, ignoring the pain and the strain, you try and you feel extremely disappointed with yourself when you fail.

“I can’t.” You wheeze, and you hate how pitiful you sound.

“Yes, you can.” She insists, and pulls on your arm a little more, making you moan.

You try to shake your head, then, mouth open to draw ragged breath to fight the pain and the shortness of breath, but you immediately stop when you feel your chek going aflare against the bristle of the carpet.

“I-”

“You’ve got to earn them, m’eudail.” She croons, and her voice is barely above a whisper when she blows those words directly into the shell of your ear.

You shiver, gaping when you feel her move away from you, but her hands are still holding you down.

You would like to ask _what_ , exactly, _you have to earn_ , but you feel it’s going to make her cross - or simply growl at you, unimpressed.

So you try again, and you try harder this time, and you use your free hand to reach behind and claw at her arm, digging your nails into her flash. She chuckles at you, utterly amused. She takes hold of your hand with startling ease, trapping your wrist in her hand and making all your efforts vain.

You shut your eyes, whining in frustration. You’re still wiggling under her, but you feel helpless; you clench the muscles of your abdomen, lift your torso from the carpet, just a few inches, before slumping back down.

“Get up.” She echoes herself, her voice harsher, this time.

You inhale deeply, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes when you push up again, except that this time you try a different approach, and focus on rolling on your back. It takes only a few instants, but you suddenly feel all the pressure gone, her knees loosen around your hips, where she pinned you down.

With a pant, you roll on the carpet, only to find her hovering above you, blue eyes piercing yours, teeth sharp and bare and she’s so close she could kill you, ripping the veins in your neck like a cougar at hunt.

“Very good.” She croons, and that feral expression turns into a delighted grin.

She talked and praised you as if you should be proud of yourself - the truth is, you’re not: you know what she did to have you roll on your back.

“You let me go.” You point out, and you feel disappointment washing over you. “I did nothing, you let me go.”

“Doesn't matter.” She notes for you.

And then she pins you down again, you feel her thighs squeezing at your hips, her hands easily finding yours, and pulling your arms up, gripping your wrists and adjusting them at either side of your face. She brings her face close to yours, the tip of her hair cascading on your skin, tickling at your chin and neck.

She’s staring down at you, and you stare back, not knowing what else you should do.  
Her hot breath fans your lips, and she’s not a cougar anymore, but she’s equally dangerous because she could do so much _worse_ than kill you, right now.

You feel trapped, but it’s strangely comforting and you don’t want to escape.

She smiles down and you, and there’s amusement mixed with delight in her eyes.

“Get up.” She says again, head tilted to the side.

You let out a strained breath, and try to wiggle out from her grasp again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	15. Day 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take a bad decision... or maybe not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 15 

You’re sitting on the carpet in the living room, holding your knees as you let your eyes roam on the landscape of your city outside the window, and the confused murmurs coming from the radio fade in your head.

You’re almost painfully aware of your kidnapper sitting comfortably on the sofa behind you, nestling a glass of vodka in her hands after a long day of God-knows-what outside the apartment. Upon her return, she unlocked your door and dragged you to the kitchen to eat the Chinese takeout straight out of the boxes, and then turned on the radio, pushing on your shoulders to force you sitting down on the carpet - all without uttering a single word.

You didn’t ask anything, of course, merely obeying, and observing her every move and expression with hungry eyes.

You knew she was tired because she _looked_ tired, but you didn’t believe she would fall asleep with her liquor glass in her hand, leaving you by yourself - gazing outside and with the radio talking in the background - but there you are.

And you’re stuck because you’re vaguely aware she has locked you in your room, usually, by this hour, but you don’t know what to do: waking her up? Walk yourself to your room and close the door, pretending it was locked?

Would she get crossed for disturbing her after an exhausting day? Would she lock in your room as a punishment for disobeying an order she gave you when she made you sit on the carpet, but never said anything about standing up and walking away?

Yes, you are stuck. And you can’t do anything about it without risking something; would it be your other shoulder, this time? Or would she continue her masterpiece on your left one? Or, on the contrary, would she praise you for being brave and take the initiative? It was all a matter of chances.

When the glass falls from her hand, you hear the dull thud of it when it hits the carpet, the finger of alcohol still inside pouring everywhere, staining the bristles with a darker patch. You grimace when the piercing smell reaches your nostrils and you wonder, for a hot second, whether you should get up to retrieve a towel and clean up the mess for her. Yet, are you supposed to be her maid, even if she has never treated you like one? Would it be simply courtesy on your behalf, but then again, should you show any to her?

You don’t know that her plan for you is - given that she had one -and yet you soon realize that you’re hopeless without her guiding you around through the monotone instants of your existence: she’s made you completely dependent on her.

Can you bring yourself to mind? Not really, not even that.

You carefully turn your head, taking her in: she almost looks quiet and harmless, sleeping, deep breath causing her chest to drop and fall rhythmically, hypnotically. She almost looks quiet and harmless, if you wouldn’t be aware of the ice behind those lids, or of the sharpness of the teeth behind those lips.

Tentatively, you roll on your side, pushing yourself on your hands and knees and crawl on the carpet, reaching out to grab the empty, toppled glass and put it on the coffee table in front of you. You return in your old position, swallowing down.

The silence that follows is unsettling: no praise, no confusing comment, no new order. You turn your head again, torn between your contrasting and illogical thoughts when your gaze drops on the shiny object that pokes out from the pocket of her leather coat.

It takes you very little time to understand that it’s her knife - the same she has threatened you with, pierced you with, scraped you with, sliced you with, branded you with.

You should hate it, despise the very sight of it, or at least recoil at the thought of it, but instead, there is something about that knife that makes you feel drawn to it, especially when, in your head, flashes the hand attached to it, and in your ears rings the voice that accompanied every action - and more.

You take a shallow breath, your eyes gazing at the peaceful face of her as she sleeps, and then back to her pocket again. You bite down on your bottom lip when your arm stretches on its own accord toward the coat, the tip of your fingers barely brushing at the coldness of the blade, before a hand - a familiar one now - snatches at your wrist with a bruising force, stopping you, trapping you.

You were feeling naughty when you decided to try and touch her knife, but now that you’ve been caught, you feel real drear spreading inside of you: will she use the knife on you, now? Unlike the other times, you now just gave her a reason to. And if she does, you have only yourself to blame.

You thought you would find her glaring at you, instead, she still had her eyes closed, meaning she’s been aware of your action the whole time. Blue eyes snap open in the exact moment when you lift your gaze from your trapped wrist to her face.

“What are you doing?” She asks, eyes narrowed just a tiny bit. She clicks her tongue then, and it’s something indecipherable.

You gape at her, panic washing over you.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Yes, you did.” She rebukes, making your yelp when she grips you even harder - just a little bit more and you know your wrist will snap.

Frankly, you don’t know what you intended to do. Just to touch the blade? Is that even an answer to your impulsive action? No, it seems so blasè and illogical you decide not to talk. But she demands an answer nonetheless, and she glares at you.

“I didn’t-” You mutter again, then your brain blanks. “I didn’t mean _to kill you_.” Those words sound stupid to you as well, so you’re not surprised when her dangerous expression change drastically, and she’s laughing at you now.

“I know that.” She offers, tilting her head to the side. She’s pitying you - and to be honest, you’re pitying yourself: even thinking about killing her is impossible. You both know that. You both know you said the first thing that came to your mind, for as stupid as it was.

Then she pauses, blue eyes boring into you. She stares, she bares her teeth into a crooked smile, and finally releases you.

There’s a throbbing on your wrist, and you hold your hand close to your chest as if to lessen the pain, opening and closing your fist tentatively as if to test it’s still functioning properly.

The woman keeps staring at you, straightening on the sofa, but still lying comfortably on the cushions, like a queen on a padded throne.

“Go on, take it.” She says then, softly, inviting. You pinch your brow in confusion, which only makes her smile. “Feel its weight in your hand.” She purrs.

You swallow when you catch the subtle movement in her eyes, direct you toward the pocket of her coat and, consequently, toward the blade peeking from it.

Is it another test? Would she break your wrist if you attempt to touch her knife? Or is it an order? Would she threaten and force you to obey?

“I won’t tell you again.” She murmurs, and now you hear the warning loud and clear.

You give a subtle nod, then stretch your arm and reach out, the handle of the knife cold beneath your pads. Almost reverently you grab it, pulling it out of her pocket, and it’s heavier than it looks when you wrap your fingers around it.

“Open it.”

You spread the two handles with your hands, slowly reveal the shiny blade - sharp and deadly - the polished surface mirroring shadows and lights from the apartment; you bring the handles together and grab them, the blade protruding proudly from your hand, rimmed by your thumb and forefinger as you wield the weapon - _her_ weapon.

“How does it make you feel?” She asks, and you can feel her eyes roaming over you, studying you, your expression, your movements.

“I don’t know.” You murmur back, shrugging.

She clicks her tongue.

“You do.” She rebuts firmly with a little snarl. “How does it make you feel?”

You could try and plunge it into her body - leg, calf, foot, the possibilities are almost endless - but you know you’re not capable of any of that. Your brain glitches again, and panic starts to rise.

“I feel-” _dangerous, powerful, thrilled_ , “blank.” You say, and frown at yourself for the peculiar choice of words. When you gaze at her, she’s gazing back, listening, maybe even intrigued although she doesn’t show. “Like a blank canvas.” You try to elaborate, but the true meaning of the words slips from you. “Full of chances.”

She seems content with that. She closes her eyes and lets her head drop back on the headrest, then she reaches out her hand, palm up to the ceiling.

You immediately put the knife there.

She takes it, and while keeping her eyes shut, she flicks her wrist to close it and shoves it back into her pocket. 

“Good.” She declares, thin lips bent up into the slightest of smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	16. Day 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name game... but make it drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 16 

You force your eyes open, even though the heaviness on your lids is overwhelming. Your head spins madly and there’s a strange soreness in your throat that only enhances the queasy sensation that has settled low in your stomach - which however is rising up, dangerously, steadily, with every single sip you take from the glass you’re nestling between your hands.

“One more.” She encourages, her grin growing wider when she grabs your shoulder, stopping you from swaying.

You’re grateful for that hand on your shoulder so you can have something stable to grab onto.

“Allyson.” You mutter, wondering if you’ve said that already or not. You can’t really remember. 

“Do I look like an Allyson to you? For fuck’s sake.” She snarls, but there’s hardly venom in her voice when she laughs, and you’re barely aware of her shaking her head no.

You blink a few times, begging that bleariness to go away even if you know already it will only get worse.

You feel her other hand wrapping around yours, gently guiding the glass to your mouth, tilting it slightly until the cool liquid touches your lips: you part them obediently, letting the liquor graze at your tongue and burn down your throat. You wince, shutting your eyes close, whining in relief when she pulls away, guiding your hand - and the glass - back on the counter.

Instead of sitting on a stool, you feel standing on the edge of the building, the whole city looking up at you, the whole world swaying trying to make you topple down.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” You warn, pressing your lips together as a wave of nausea hits you low in the stomach. It’s not the first time you got drunk, of course, but it’s the first time someone wants you to get drunk on purpose - you’ve only inflicted that pain on yourself, never let others do it for you, not let others decide for you… oh, how things have changed.

“Don’t.” The woman croons, between a suggestion and an order - or is it a challenge for you? - while she fills the glass up with the amber liquid. “One more.”

You sigh, struggling to remember at least one other name from the elementary school you haven’t tried yet - you’re vaguely aware of using all of your female friends from college and high school with no luck. So you switched to Scottish ones: Elsie, Allyson… still nothing. One more. One more…

“Phiona?” You guess, already knowing she’s going to say no.

“Bottom up.” The woman says, almost triumphantly.

You know complaining won’t get you far, so you think it’s better to finish that torture quickly and hope she’s merciful enough to let you go to sleep, after.

You grab the glass tighter with both of your hands and carefully lift it, mouth chasing after the multiple lines that make your eyes cross. You grip it with your teeth when you finally bring it to your mouth, and you know the woman is holding it up for you, from the bottom, firmly keeping the glass in place against your lips.

You gulp down the content, thinking you’ve probably downed more than half of the whiskey bottle by yourself at this point, and your mouth and tongue have gone numb - _fuck_ , your whole body has gone numb.

“That’s a good girl.” She purrs. snatching the glass from your hands and putting it down on the counter.

If her hand wasn’t holding you upright and steady with your hand, you’re positive you would double over and collapse to the ground by her feet. When she hoists you up, you feel like a ragdoll in her arms, as she wraps around you, warm and reassuring, and she’s strong while she guides you through the apartment, managing to keep you steady despite the vicious dizziness overcoming you.

She’s gentle when she helps you lay down on the bed, rolls you on your side so you face the edge of the mattress, and tucks the blanket tight around your body, restricting your movements.

You immediately close your eyes, whining when you feel nausea rising up again. What if you’re going to be sick? How would you call for her in case you need to rush to the toilet to puke your guts out?

“You’ll be fine.” The woman assures you. You feel a light stroke on your forehead and you’re breathing easier now that your hair has been removed from your face.

You feel her walking away, the squeak of the door, but before you hear it close and the lock click, there’s a pause.

“Miranda.” She says with a soft voice. “If you remember my name in the morning, I’ll give you a reward.”

The door closes. The lock clicks.

 _Stay awake_ , you order yourself: you need to stay conscious, untangle yourself from the blanket, push yourself up from the bed, and rush to the desk to write it down in your notebook.

It happens perfectly inside your head.

Only in there: you fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	17. Day 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You remember, and the reward is granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 17 

“You didn’t throw up.”

You try to blink your eyes open, grunting at the vicious throbbing at your temples. You’re vaguely aware there’s a weight on the mattress, making you shift toward the edge, and you’re vaguely aware that the woman is watching you - and talking to you - though the words come distant and dull.

“You didn’t throw up, I said.” The woman repeats, and you make a real attempt to open your eyes. It’s all blurry and bright, so you instinctively scrunch up your face, hiding it behind your palms, but she tugs your hands away, and her own slide effortlessly between the nape of your neck and the pillow.

You grunt a complaint, still not fully conscious, and when she pulls your head up, you slowly begin to come back to your senses: your throat is sore, your head is throbbing, and your bladder is strained from all the alcohol you’ve gulped down during the night. You’re in desperate need of aspirin and a toilet - but you know you can’t ask for either of those things and that she won’t concede any kind of relief unless she decides to provide you with it.

“You need to stay hydrated.” She advises firmly, and the next thing you know, there’s a bottle placed against your mouth. She’s not pressing you to drink the water sloshing inside it, she’s merely holding it up to you, and you can’t actually decide if she really cares about your health so much she wants you to have water in your body to balance out all the toxins still in your system. Is this the same woman who sliced you twice already?

You swallow thickly, licking at your chapped lips when you acknowledge how thirsty you actually are.

You shift beneath the cover, cross your legs, and part your lips to take a sip from the bottle, cool water running soothingly down your throat making you sigh in relief.

When you think you’re done, you tilt your head up, moving away to let her know, but she keeps you steady there, the hand at the nape of your neck suddenly strong and unyielding.

“More.” She says, and it’s hardly an invitation.

“I’m good.” You try to counter with a tentative voice, but she just glares at you, tilting the bottle again, but you press your lips together.

“You’re not.” She replies with calmness.

“Please-” You beg, but you’re not even sure for what: for her to stop giving you water, for her to give you something to make the headache go away, for letting you go visit the bathroom, or simply show some mercy?

“Good girls don’t make a fuss.” She says, and tilts the bottle again, working the rim between your lips, leaving you no choice but to drink.

You shut your eyes close, thinking that maybe, if you indulge her, she’ll let you talk and maybe allow you to even ask for favors - bathroom, aspirin, some food... in any order of her choice of course.

You take two large gulps, then a third, but she doesn’t stop, nor backs away with the bottle. Your stomach feels uncomfortably full as well, and you wiggle away, coughing water from your mouth.

“Please, Miranda-”

The effect is immediate: she draws the bottle away, lets your head fall back on the pillow, and you look around, confused, the dizziness settling in again.

The woman is giving you an impressed look, breathing through her mouth with her teeth bare in what looks like a grin.

“Very good, m’eudail.” She purrs. “You remember my name.”

You want to gloat at that little victory that seems to have affected her in a positive way. Are you allowed, though?

 _Miranda_. So you weren’t hallucinating.

You let that name settle in your brain. It had rolled prettily on your tongue, despite the begging - or was it _because_ of the begging?

You smile when she smiles at you, eyes boring on her when she tugs roughly at the blanket, offering her hand for you to take it. She doesn’t say anything, merely guides you through the apartment as she collects things on the way to the bathroom: she seems to know what you need even before you know that yourself. And so she provides you with aspirin and some healthy food to quench your grumbling stomach.

She has you sitting on the carpet, watching out of the windows as she sits on the sofa, flicking at some folders full of documents in perfect silence. You gaze at the city for hours.

She orders in, works through some other documents, and this time, her hand is engaged with her knife - opening it, closing it, fanning it, making it go round, _click_ , _shuffle_ , open again, close, and back into her pocket.

You thought she played with that thing to get on your nerves, but even if that was her intention, it didn't affect you. Now that the room is silent again, you miss it.

She gives you the lunch’s leftovers, dividing them equally into your two plates, then sinks down in her armchair nestling a glass of liquor in her hands. You sit on the carpet by her feet. You haven’t spoken all day.

It’s the dead of the night when she leads you to your room.

“Goodnight m’eudail.” She purrs from under the doorframe, hand gripping tightly on the handle.

“Goodnight, Miranda.” You reply automatically, feeling a strange sensation sinking in you. Her name feels awkward on your tongue, the domesticity of bidding goodnight to your abductor close to insane - well, it is, just like that: _insane_. Because, in a way, it feels good, it feels comforting; it feels right.

You stare at her from your bed, fingers wringing at the blanket when she gives you the smallest of smiles.

You’ve almost forgotten about the reward promised, but it all comes back to your mind when she closes the door behind her without locking it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	18. Day 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda makes a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 18

You wake up at dawn, but despite the few hours of sleep, you don’t feel tired and you’re certain you can’t go back to sleep: the thought of your door being unlocked is too enthralling. You might be trapped inside an apartment, but not imprisoned inside your own room - technically, you can wander around the house undisturbed and to your own liking.

You’ve contemplated the thought last night, lulling you to sleep, not entirely sure you can use that freedom _exactly_ to your own liking, but you can see no harm in trying. What’s the worst she can do, anyway? Slice you up again? Get you drunk? Nothing you haven’t faced already. For a little unsupervised walk inside the apartment? The risk is certainly worth it.

You sway your legs off the edge of the mattress, shivering when your feet meet the coldness of the tiles on the floor, but it’s a welcoming heat difference, allowing you to shake off the slumber completely. You stand up, fluff the pillow, fold the blanket neatly, and put it on the foot of the mattress, then grab your notebook and your pencil and carefully grip the handle.

A thrill crawls up your spine when the door clicks open with just a little amount of pressure, and when you pull, you can’t suppress a gasp when it actually opens and it feels like magic, to you.

There’s a strange silence in the apartment, it’s dark, but not too dark, since there’s dim light coming from the big windows in the living room. You pad through the corridor, carefully eyeing the closed door where Miranda is, supposedly, sleeping in her bed, unaware of your little wee-hours adventure.

You contemplate the idea of exploring the space: does she have a computer around? Has she left her phone somewhere? If you wish, could you call the police or somebody to get you out of there?  
But the idea quickly leaves your mind, not so vital anymore, when the city landscape catches your eye, with the skyscrapers standing out in the dawning azure, orange and yellow hues bleeding in from below as the sun rises.

As if beckoned by a spell, you walk to the window and sit down, completely captured by that vision and you remain there, for hours maybe, your eyes thirsty of everything that moves just as much of everything that says still. You would get yourself a nice cup of steaming tea, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to rummage through her things yet: it’s already a big thing you can wander around on your own like that - better not to push it.

You turn your head to the digital clock on the microwave when you hear a faint chiming coming from afar. You recognize the annoying tune of an alarm, and you flick through your notebook, scribbling down the time. Maybe it can be useful.

You wait patiently by the window, hugging your legs and resting your chin on your knees, and you stare at her when she emerges from the corridor, wondering what her reaction might be.

“Goodmorning.” She mumbles, her voice hoarse.

She barely acknowledges you as she pads to the bathroom.

“Goodmorning.” You mumble back, with a little voice barely audible. You follow her with your gaze, slightly disappointed for the complete lack of response, and you purse your lips, drawing doodles in your notebook.

She stays away for exactly fifteen minutes, then walks into the kitchen and starts to put the kettle on the fire. You watch her as she moves mechanically around; hair combed and loose on her shoulders, light makeup, the chosen blouse following her movements, the tight pants inside the boots.

“You can help yourself with the food.” She says flatly. “I’m not your ma.” She snaps, tugging two mugs from the shelf and pouring two generous spoonfuls of sugar in each.

“Thank you, Miranda.” You nod, slowly standing up to reach your designated stool.

She pauses at that, narrows her eyes in your direction.

“I want you to do something for me.” She says, reaching behind her when the kettle whistles, and you can only observe when she grabs the handle without looking, pouring the hot water inside the mugs without spilling a single drop.

“What is it?” You bring yourself to ask, shivering with anticipation when your mind helplessly wanders on the various possibilities taking from in there: you’ve tasted her anger and her dangerousness, what else is she capable of? And now she’s about to involve you in her affairs.

“I’ll be out. I’ll come back tonight, maybe tomorrow.” She mumbles, not really answering your question just yet. She turns around, grabs some sliced bread and the jar on the counter. She sets up two plates and spreads the jam on the bread with a blunt knife.

You frown, the unsettling feeling sinking in your stomach when you notice it’s your favorite type of jam - you’re still surprised she’s learned so much by following you around.

“I want you to clean my guns while I’m away.” She says simply, throwing the knife into the sink with precision.

It’s a strange request, you thought not many people knew how to clean a gun, and the fact that she knows you can, it might be even more unsettling than the rest: it’s been years since you’ve done it - and despite all those years, you remember everything.

“I-” You mumble, swallowing thickly.

“Well?” She urges. “You remember how to do that.” She glares. And it's not a question: once again it's a statement because she _knows_ you remember, she _knows_ you can do it.

You nod slowly then, and she throws you a knowing look, a victorious smirk spreads on her lips. It’s scary how she always seems to know what you’re thinking.

You bow your head, feeling somewhat exposed by your admittance. You don’t really want to do it - you hate the feeling of a gun in your hands, the memories that come with it - but you know you’ll do that anyway; after all, Miranda asked you, and you can’t say no to her, because the consequences won’t be pleasant - because you simply can’t bring yourself to say no to her.

“Where are your guns?” You ask then.

“Oh,” She locks your gaze with her and draws her thumb to her lips, sucking the pad clean from a smudge of jam, and releasing her finger with a wet sound, “a little here, a little there.” She croons playfully, shrugging dismissively, and then she pushes one plate in your direction.

You silently wonder what does she mean by that: are you supposed to play 'hot and cold' until you find all the guns she’s hiding, but without any hints from her since she’ll be out? What happens if you don’t find all the guns to clean - what happens if you don’t find _any_?

“Where do I find the products?” You mumble again, making a list in your head for all the things you might need to complete the task.

She bites on her food, teeth sinking into the jam and bread with ease, and she chews and grins in your direction. She doesn’t answer, and you’re not even surprised. You mirror her movement then, knowing you won’t get anything more from her, and start nibble on your bread while she finishes hers.

Miranda puts the plate into the sink as well and then marches toward the front door.  
She grabs her leather coat from the hook, drapes it over her shoulder by making it swing like a cape before sliding her arms in the sleeves with one swift movement that has you hypnotized.

“I expect to find them all perfectly clean and polished when I’m back, m’eudail.” She grins, making the keys jingle in her hand. “Don’t disappoint me.” She warns before sliding out, locking the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	19. Day 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 19 

There are four guns on the kitchen table, all clean and polished to perfection. You put them on display, neatly arranged as if you were to sell them, ready to be inspected by their owner.

You found all the cleaning products in a cabinet in the living room while searching for the guns; then you found a revolver attached under the table with tape, another in the fake plant vase by the corridor, and one in the bathroom, on top of the cabinet. You thought you were done, but by the time your stomach rumbled in the evening, and you went to the oven with the intention of heating up the remnants of bread, you found the last gun chilling on one of the racks. You went to bed satisfied, aware that her prediction about being back by the night wouldn’t occur, and woke up in the morning with a thrill of excitement running down your spine: she didn’t say when she would be back exactly, but you perched yourself on the stool, facing the front door, waiting for her return.

You smile at the guns while you chew at a cereal bar you found in a box. You know you’ve done a fine job with those, and you’re foretasting the positive judgment she’ll bestow upon you. Are you pathetic or desperate to long for her praises? Or maybe you are both? But then again, what else can you do?

You wait for her the whole morning, you chew at another bar for lunch, then abandon your stool and curl up by the window for the whole afternoon, eyes roaming on the streets, trying to spot Miranda down there on her way home; people are so little you can hardly tell their gender for one thing, but you try anyway.

By evening, when the streetlamps are on and a pretty sunset messes the deep azure of the sky, you start to wonder if she’s coming back at all.  
You only imagined what her job might be, but you could come up with very little option after the vault she trapped you in for days - or weeks? - and now the guns are only a mere validation. Whether she’s a hitman of some sort, she does something dangerous and whenever she’s out of that apartment, she has someone who probably wants her dead, putting her safety on a constant threat. What if somebody killed her and is currently dumping her dead body into the ocean? A shiver runs up your spine. You think it’s because nobody will tend to you, and you’ll die, eventually, once you run out of food, locked up inside that place with no way out or something to contact the outside world. But then her face appears in your mind, and the idea of her being dead, not only makes you shiver but your stomach clenches with dread.

You don’t want her to be dead, and not only for selfish reasons.  
You don’t want her to be dead, period.

So you convince yourself that she isn't, that she's coming back. Home. _To you?  
_ You laugh at yourself. You're dreaming if you think she cares that much: she barely wants you alive. For what, you still don't know.

You shake your head, exhale a long breath, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	20. Day 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 20 

It’s morning again when you hear a distant sound of keys and the lock of the front door clicking.

You fell asleep by the window, peering down in the dark streets to see if Miranda would return - you couldn’t see a thing, of course, but you kept staring anyway.

Your stomach rumbles and all your muscles protest for the weird angle you stayed for hours, but you jump promptly to your feet as soon as you hear the rattle of the handle being turned harshly.

You feel like a puppy wagging its tail for its owner’s return, and you hardly suppress your excited bark in the form of a ‘Miranda!’ because it would be too humiliating, confirming your state of pet in such a pitiful manner.

But you can’t help feeling a strange feeling spreading inside of your chest when the door crack opens, and you hear her voice muttering a string of curses. There’s a jerk in the way she slams the door open, and you frown, instinctively rushing closer.

The light coming from the stairs glows in for a moment and you gasp when you take in the state of her: hair tousled, teeth bared as she breathes hard, blue eyes shimmering. She rests against the door for a moment, and when she walks in, she stumbles a little, and there’s a patch of dark crimson where she has been leaning. Miranda is covered in blood and your stomach clenches at the sight - for the smell, but most of all for the possible wounds on her body. Is she in pain?

“Don’t fuss, m’eudail.” She says sharply, grinning at you with a smug face. Then gets a sharp intake of air through her nose, her free hand digging into her hip as she discards the keys into a bowl by the entrance. “It’s not mine.” She snarls, teeth bare into a sort of grin. 

You heave a sigh of relief, hoping she hasn’t seen you, though she probably has. There’s a whole parade of question you want to ask her, starting from where has she been; if she’s hurt; if she has killed anyone or if anyone is after her; if the both of you are in danger now; if she has to go away again, any time soon; has she used her knife or a gun; has she seen the guns on the table you’ve polished for her like she asked, have you find them all, is she satisfied?

Miranda straightens her back, slowly walking into the corridor.

“I’ll go take a shower.” She announces, barely glancing over the table where the guns are, and you’re not sure, but she smiles a little before her face scrunches up into a half tired, half pained wince. “Clean the door for me, would you?” She mutters, then walks away and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door on her back.

You stand there, dumbstruck: the front door of the apartment that has been your prison for so long is now open and unguarded. What would it take to just run out and flee outside the building, as fast as you can, far away from that place, without looking back?

“Don’t you even think about it.”

You whip your head to the corridor, Miranda’s voice coming muffled from behind the bathroom door, but dangerous nonetheless. She doesn’t need to add anything to that: even if you decide to disobey and run, you know she’ll find you - she has been following you for weeks, months maybe, she probably knows you better than you know yourself - and the consequences will be terrible. Are you willing to test her?

A pet, that is what you are. A pet wagging its tail when the owner comes home, a pet that contemplates running away as soon as it sees the chance, a pet that gets strangled by the collar when the owner reminds it of the leash attached to it. Miranda has an invisible one hooked to your neck.

You hear the water running in the shower.

You go back into the kitchen, retrieve a dishcloth, and rinse it under cold water; you return to the front door, wipe away the stains of blood from the flat surface, from the doorknob, and carefully stare at the moquette just outside the apartment lest she left some incriminating trace there. Are you really helping and covering the trails of a potential assassin? Does this make you a bad person? And who isn’t, after all.

You put the stained cloth on your shoulder, get a generous intake of air from outside, close the door, and go back to the kitchen.  
Perching on the stool in front of the guns, you wait for her to come out of the shower and admire your work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	21. Day 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 21

She has seen you naked many times by now, even washed you more than once when she still had you bound to walk out of the vault, but now that you’re standing on top of the coffee table, in only your bra and underwear, you feel awfully exposed nonetheless.

Miranda is inspecting her guns, and you watch her in silence as she brings each one to the window, turning it to the bright light of the morning, smiling, humming to herself before putting the gun back on the table, and she keeps walking up and down, bringing a gun to the window and putting it back after studying it. She does this four times, and you watch.

Despite telling you she won’t get out any time soon, she’s all dressed up: hair up into a loose ponytail, light makeup, a turtleneck that she wears like a second skin, and tight black jeans stuffed inside her ankle boots; you can see her knife peeking out the back pocket of her pants, too large or too long to fitting in completely.

“You’re really paying off my efforts.” She says, complacent.

Miranda gives you her back then, and abandons the guns on the table, quickly forgotten. She walks toward you, rounds the coffee table where you’re still standing, and crouches down the cabinet where you found the products to clean her guns. You remember seeing other curious stuff in there, but you didn’t touch anything, scared she might have a special pattern and find out immediately if you touched something or moved a single object from its original place - you remember seeing old knives, leather gloves, tape, ropes, wires.

She stands back up, stuffing something in her other back pocket with one hand, while in the other she holds a black string, flat, less than one inch wide.

You don’t know what she’s up to. Does she want to tie you up in some manner? She knows you’ll stay still no matter what. How far does she intend to push the limit?

Miranda rounds the table until she’s in front of you. The height difference is significant now, and it makes you uncomfortable, the way her breath crashes on your legs; she knows that, she knows you’re uncomfortable, because a smug grin is plastered on her mouth as her eyes rank on your body, dwelling on your thighs.

“Open up.” She says gingerly, tilting her head up, blue eyes locking with yours as you look down at her, silently inquiring. She keeps staring when you part your lips to ask what exactly she wants from you, but the wind gets trapped in your lungs when she grabs one of your knees firmly, then slides her hand between, nudging your legs apart.

You swallow, indulging her immediately lest losing your balance and fall down unceremoniously, and you hold your breath in, shivering when her hand trails steadily up your inner thigh, the string tickling your skin, pads, and leather eliciting goosebumps on their wakes.

She smiles up at you, and her fingers move deftly on your leg. You feel your thigh being squeezed, then a soft metallic sound when she settles the buckle at just the right point to let the leather string hang on your upper leg without falling down and without cutting off the circulation.

Miranda backs up one step, pursing her lips with, cocking her head as she studies it. Seemingly satisfied by how it stays on, she reaches behind in her back pocket.

You silently gasp when you see the blade of a knife shining for a moment in her hand; it’s not like hers: it’s smaller, not a butterfly one, drop-shaped.

Miranda gets closer to you again, her hot breath fanning your legs when she slips the knife between the string and your skin, hooking it under the leather. She slides it right where she wants it on your outer thigh, the buckle too, so it doesn’t stand in the way.

“You’re pretty in it.” She purrs, her eyes locked on the knife fastened to your leg.

Your throat is suddenly dry, and there’s a strange heat crawling on your skin, and you feel warm on your neck and chest. You feel barely more than a doll under her gaze, dressed up with a weapon to pleasure her sight.

But then you see her smile fading away all at once. She locks your eyes in yours, and there’s that dangerous tinge shimmering in those blue pools, the one you haven’t seen in a while, the same that peered at you the first few days.

“But any weapon is useless if you don’t know how to use it.” She whispers behind clenched teeth.  She pauses, holds her hand up, flexes two fingers at you, beckoning you to lean into her.

You do, but your brain doesn’t have time to process what’s happening before the back of her hand collides with your cheek, and the surprise added to the harshness of the blow makes you stumble, toppling down the coffee table onto the floor.

“What the fuck–” You croak out, your voice wrapping up the sentence with a sob. You hurt everywhere, confusion cloaking your head when you reach up to cup your own cheek, skin burning hot where she struck you.

“Such foul language.” She croons and clicks her tongue, walking slowly toward you, boots sliding elegantly on the carpet where you landed.

You try to push yourself up, but you’re suddenly aware of the weight pressing right between your scapulae, the hard command sole of her booth holding you down.

“Get up.” She says echoing the same order she gave you a few days ago, when she pushed you down in the corridor and pinned you down to the floor.

You try to wiggle out, then remember what had you free last time, so you attempt to roll on your side, push with all your efforts, but this time, she keeps you down. 

“Where’s the feisty little thing that tried to run out her cell on her fourth day here, mh?” She pressed down again, and your mouth falls slack as you gasp for air, eyes burning and arms flaring out in panic when you realize that a very little amount of air can enter your lungs.

You try to focus, the need for oxygen triggering your survival instinct - or your desperation - and you reach down with your hand, fingers gripping the handle of the knife latched to your thigh.

There’s a slight burn on your leg, where you’ve scratched your skin pulling the knife out, but you can’t bring yourself to bother, torn between the relief of breathing freely again, and the little victory spreading in your chest when she jerks away from you, removing her boot from your back lest getting hit by your sloppy saber.

“There you are.” She snarls between her teeth, but you can discern the tinge of amusement in her voice.

You swallow thickly, scrambling away to put at least a decent amount of distance between you. Your heart thumps in your chest, but it’s not fear, the one that sizzles through your veins; it’s not panic, the one that flares through your eyes - and she knows it because she can see it all from the outside, and she smirks.

“Doesn’t it feel better to strike back?” She asks, eyes narrow. But it’s clear from the tone of her voice that it’s rhetorical, and that she’s not done talking. “Whenever someone disrespects you or encroaches upon your rights?”

She’s walking steadily toward you, and you’re vaguely aware of the shivering of your dominant hand gripping the knife.  _ Yes _ , of course, the answer to those questions is  _ yes _ . But what does she want? What are you supposed to do? She did all those things to you: Miranda is your abductor, she is the one who branded you with a knife twice already, she is the one who took away your basic rights.

But Miranda is also the one who freed you from her own vault, the one who tends to your basic needs, the same that tests you almost every day, the one that gave you the very knife you’re holding.

She crouches in front of you, and you feel drowning in the bright blue of her eyes.

“Wouldn’t it feel better to have the possibility to strike back anytime you desire?” She purrs and you stare, desperately trying to hang on her words, follow the threads despite the throb in your temple where you landed when you fell from the table, and the burn on your cheek where she hit you, or the general soreness coursing through your body right now.

You hiss when she claws at your thigh, her thumb tracing up the thin cut of the knife, collecting the single droplet of blood.

“Have the possibility,” she whispers, then barks out a chuckle, spreading that small speck of crimson on her pad with her forefinger, “and  _ choose  _ not to kill?”

“I don’t-” You stammer, the words falling out your mouth before you can even think of shutting up. Miranda cocks an eyebrow, silently urging you to go on, so you do. “I don’t want to kill anybody.”

She smiles, bobbing her head up and down.

“You don’t want to.” She says flatly, and you can’t help but stare when she draws her thumb to her lips, licking it clean. “Until you do... or _need_ to. Same thing.”

You swallow thickly, and you barely register the blade falling off your hand. You’re about to speak when the wind is knocked out of your lungs yet again, her fingers wrapping around your throat, squeezing down your flesh.

“And I believe every girl should have that choice.” She says behind gritted teeth, and her other hand comes to cup your face, her palm strangely cool against the seething heat on your cheek.

It's a fight of contrast between the violence of her right hand and her words, and the tenderness of her left one and her eyes, so close they take all your range of vision up to the point that there’s only blue before you, wide and vast, darkening at the edges as your breath catches.

“Don’t you think that too, m’eudail?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	22. Day 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 22

There is a strangled cry leaving your lips when you wake up. You’ve opened your eyes wide, panic spreading in your chest, but the bright light coming from the windows almost blinds you, so you squint, arms flaring, and you hit the wall with the back of your hand.

“Shit.” You mutter, panting hard as you try to collect yourself. Your neck is sore and you wince at the odd sensation in your throat, almost as if you’ve eaten a handful of sand.

What is the last thing you remember? Miranda on top of you; her hand squeezing your neck; her eyes so blue, so dangerous, boring into you, blackness progressing from the corners, moving inward until it engulfed everything.

You swallow hard, trying to lessen the soreness in your throat, but you only make it worse.

Swinging your legs off the mattress, you wince at the strange pull at the skin of your thigh. You look down, tracing the cut on your leg with your pad, feeling the small rising of the dried blood gathered there - the black string is gone and so is the knife: both are resting on the desk, you see them as you walk out the door, your only goal is to find water and a mirror so you can check the damage.

Marching through the kitchen, you notice the time on the microwave display. It’s still early: you have at least an hour before her alarm goes off.

You push the bathroom door open and launch yourself at the sink, turning the tap and drinking greedily until your stomach feels full and your throat less sore.

You’re panting when you turn off the water stream, wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, and then straighten your back, studying yourself in the mirror.

You tilt your head from side to side, touch the skin under the jaw, pressing down to test the gravity of the bruises there: some are purple, some other a deeper shade of blue; each and everyone aches when you touch them, but there’s a strange tingle at the pit of your stomach, spreading inside, when you notice that those marks together form the print of her hand.

“Admiring my work as well?”

Her voice makes your heart jump. Over your shoulder, through the mirror, you watch her emerge from the shower, blue eyes locked into you, her naked, dripping body hidden behind yours in the reflection - you don’t dare turn, of course. You wonder if you’ve unleashed her anger, interrupting her like that. Also, after yesterday, you don't know what to think anymore. Just when you thought she was done torturing you, there she was at it again, throwing you off balance, both physically and literally.

“I’m sorry,” You whimper, and your breath catches, “I thought-”

“What is it, m’eudail?” She croons, tilting her head to the side. “Afraid of lil' old me?” She inquires, and when you feel her wet hand gripping your bare shoulder, you turn under her firm squeeze, obeying her silent request.

She stares at you, and despite being strangely aware of her state, you stare back too, trying not to drown in that deadly blue, trying to contain the quaking of your legs.

“Let me see.” She says, and her hand trails up on your neck.

You jerk away instinctively when her pad brushes against the bruise left from her thumb, the darker one, but she keeps you there, following your movement.

She gives a hum, and you see the shadow of a smirk bending her lips.

“Ah, la petite mort.” She comments, her voice barely above a breath. “Fascinating isn’t it? Though yours was far from being _petite_. And without the usual bliss that precedes it, of course.” She bares her teeth then, a sicken delight shining on her fangs, sharp at the neon lights from the mirror. “You’ve been unconscious for hours. I could’ve done anything to you.”

“Like kill me?”

“For one.” She agrees, brow pinched - maybe displeased for your intervention, maybe impressed by the audacity to speak up right after those words.

You don’t know. You never do.

You feel yourself being turned like a ragdoll when her free hand grips your other shoulder and you look through the reflection in the mirror as she studies the marks on your back, fingers ghosting over the two straight lines.

“I can’t wait to give you another.” She purrs. And you know you should complain and beg to spare you the pain of being sliced up again - and for what? - but there’s something in her voice that keeps you silent. “Don’t you? Crave for another?”

She stares at you, still through the mirror. You stare back.

“It would please me _immensely_.” She whispers again, her breath crashing on the shell of your ear, and you shiver, helplessly, thin droplets cascading from her hands onto your skin, trailing down invisible paths, tickling you as they run on your body.

You don’t recall reasoning with your brain before agreeing with her, your head bobbing up and down on its own accord.

“Excellent.” She beams, and you feel her body pressing against yours in a quick, swift motion. You close your eyes, her arm wraps tightly around your neck once more, and you grip at it, trying to pull, but you’re too weak, too unfocused with Miranda’s damp skin against your own, every nerve of your body aware and awake.

“Eyes open.” She orders, her breath still hot against your ear.

You obey, blinking at the mirror - her gaze on you.

“Did you bring your knife?” She asks, and you swallow thickly when you feel the edge of her teeth scraping against your ear now.

“No.” You whimper, feeling helpless bare.

Miranda clicks her tongue, but she’s hardly truly sorry when she gives you a little, apologetic pout.

“Too bad.” She mocks, then pulls back, her arm hooking around your neck, blocking the air into your lungs.

You pull stronger at her arms, desperate to breathe, desperate to remove yourself from that painful hold on your already aching neck. Panic starts to rise again.

“Focus.” Despite the struggle, her voice is calm, firm, _grounding_ even while she speaks in your ear. “I want you to always wear your knife. Understand?”

You nod.

“Good. Now let’s see how long it takes before you pass out on me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays, caos part 4 killed me in the vilest of ways. Lilith doesn't deserve that much suffering, she's been through enough already. But of course, Michelle slew the role so here I am, completely shattered because of her acting. Anyway, here's my pitiful excuse for the updates inconsistencies; forgive me? 😅
> 
> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	23. Day 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda reveals something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 23 

It’s late when she comes back. You glance at the time on the microwave from your spot by the window, wincing when you realize it’s even later than you thought.

Nestling a steaming mug of tea in your hands, warming your fingers on the thick china, you watch her remove her coat and pulling her boots off unceremoniously - probably you’ll put those back to where they belong on the racks, fulfilling a duty she never asked to fulfill, but you just decide to take on by your own accord. Will she be mad at you for keeping the place neat as a sort of payback? Sure, she is the one who kidnapped you, but she’s also the one keeping you alive, the one who feeds you and provides for your needs. She'll hardly be mad; if anything, she will probably barely notice. Does it matter? Not much, since you have nothing else to do anyway.

“Brought you cupcakes.” She says suddenly, shaking a box in one of her gloved hands, a satisfied smirk plastered on her thin lips, coated in red lipstick.

She seems smugly proud of herself, and you can’t help staring, scoffing subtly at her expression. Was that supposed to be a gift? Or a treat? You did feel her eyes raking over your body that very morning, her blue gaze dwelling on your thigh where, as promised, you wore the string and the knife.

“Thanks?” You frown, shaking your head in dazzlement. “I made tea.” You reply, gesturing at the kettle with your chin.

“You boiled water.” She corrects, striding toward the table and dropping the box on the shiny surface. Something rattles inside.

You stand up then, watching closely as she pours herself the scolding water in another mug, dropping the tea bag inside, letting it soak.

Perched on your stool, you wait, curiosity settling in your head, your mouth watering at the idea of what you might find inside the box. But then you pause, wondering if she’s tricking you: is this one of her tests?

When you lift your gaze, you find Miranda’s eyes boring into you, her chin resting in her palm, elbow planted on the table. You don’t like her smirk. You don’t like her smirk one bit.

You narrow your eyes, silently asking what she has in mind, but she doesn’t answer. Of course, as always, she lets you decide, be the maker of your own destiny, suffer the consequences, or own them.

 _Here goes nothing._ You unconsciously hold your breath when you lift the lid of the box, and actually find cupcakes in it - a lot of different flavors and, of course, your favorite as well. It should surprise you, but at this point, it just doesn’t.

You release your breath, then fish into the box to retrieve your treat, and barely restrain the hum of appreciation when your teeth sunk into the soft sweetness of the cupcake. You thank her silently, eating with gusto, and she smiles at you from behind the mug as she sips tea from it.

There are so many questions crowding your head all the time, and they grow louder during quiet times like this one. When she seems to be at ease, calm, without that dangerous sparkle in her eyes, you almost feel comfortable around her, and that makes your courage build - which is probably not a good thing, after all.

“Miranda?” You call her before you even realize it.

When she looks up at you, eyebrow cocked, you know it’s too late to back off.  
“Yes?” She urges, putting the mug down.

You stare at her for a moment, suddenly at a loss of words: what exactly do you want to ask her about? Are you even able to formulate a question without triggering her? _You really needed to spoil that quiet time, didn’t you?_

You shut your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Why me?” You finally manage to croak out, and you even build up the courage to gaze into her eyes as you wait for an answer that, probably, you won’t get - or maybe you will, cryptic like every time.

You watch her carefully, seemingly studying the way she tilts her head and purses her lips, pressing them together; how slowly she lifts her hand and her thumb ghosts at the corner of your mouth, collecting a crumb on her pad; how she draws her hand back, peeling the speck off with her teeth; how she swallows, deliberately slow.

It happened in a blink. It felt like an eternity, to you.

“And why _not_ you?” She whispers, voice a little hoarse, plucking at something invisible buried inside you.

“Why not.” You echo her words, giving a little scoff. There is a whole universe of 'why nots', but you don’t dare name them, not even one, because you just know better than to counter her so freely.

Miranda blinks, then inhales sharply, and you feel it in your guts she’s about to say something important, finally, perhaps without any incomprehensible riddles.

“ _You_.” She croons, slowly standing on her feet, nails scratching at the table while she walks toward you. “You, because you taught yourself how to be invisible.”

That is true.

“You, because nobody even thought about looking for you since you’ve gone missing.” She adds, and you can detect a tinge of sickening amusement in her voice.

That is too, true. Sad, and true.

“You, because no matter what this bitch of a life throws at you, you adapt.”

You nod at those words, as if you’re under a spell, trapped between the notes of her voice. When Miranda settles behind you, gripping your shoulders with your hands, nails clawing lightly at your flesh, you tense.

“You,” she purrs, low and against your ear. Her untied hair tickles your neck, “because you’ve got nothing to lose, but still own the sparkle.” You feel her lips ghosting on your skin, moving lightly into a smile. “Honestly, how else would I choose my-”

You hear her breath catch. She doesn’t say it.  
Silently, inside your head, you try to finish that sentence for her: pet, victim, maid, entertainment, experiment? All the above?

You part your lips to speak, demanding to - _please_ \- complete that sentence, but Miranda is gone; cold against your neck where she breathed next to you, cold on your shoulders where her hands rested, cold behind you where you felt her presence lingering there.

“Miranda-”

“Go to bed.”

Cold, the tone of her voice, where you felt the innatural warmth only instants ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	24. Day 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should be fighting me, m’eudail. Where are your survival instincts?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 24

You couldn’t fall asleep last night: her voice and her words swirling around your head in an endless loop of questions and broken sentences destined to remain unanswered and uncompleted.

Looking out of the window and inspecting yet again the light peeking from beyond the buildings, you decide that it’s not too early to get up now.

Grunting, the stream of thoughts never leaving your mind, you perch your leg on the chair and straps the dagger to your thigh. You’ve been quicker this time, and you bet tomorrow you’ll be even quicker. With your nail, you scrape at the thinnest trail of dried blood on your leg, removing the traces of one of the many attempts of removing or putting the dagger back in place, which resulted in annoying scratches on your skin.

You don’t bother putting your t-shirt on when you stride outside your room, but you merely drape it on your shoulder to wear it later after you've washed.  
You pad barefoot through the apartment, feeling somewhat eager to start the day when you peer at yourself into the mirror: the marks on your neck are fading, you’ve learned to regulate your breathing, and how and where to pull when she takes hold of you by surprise. You’re making progress, even if she doesn’t say. You’re learning, even if she doesn’t say for what reason.  


It’s frustrating, but there’s nothing you can do.

You bite on your toothbrush without even realizing it, the plastic hard under your teeth, some of the bristles pushing painfully into your gums. When you spit out the foam from your mouth, there’s a tinge of blood that makes you wince.  
You cup water into your hand and drop it into the sink to clean it, then put your toothbrush next to the other.

The thoughts and her words come back, somehow louder than ever.  
How else would she choose her  _ what _ , exactly? You drop your head and close your eyes, breathing hard, hands clawing at the sink so tight your knuckles turn white.

You shouldn’t let it affect you so much. You shouldn’t let _Miranda_ affect you so much. Yet the truth is that she does. She simply does.

And then you feel it: the door squeaking open, her light steps hurrying toward you.  
She gives you no time to react before you feel her body pressing on the back of yours, warm from the bed. Your breath catches, every protest dies in your throat at the unforeseeable feeling of her hand snaking up your chest, between the cup of your bra, her fingers swiftly grabbing at one of your breasts, kneading roughly.

You let out a choked, startled whine at the coldness of the familiar blade pressing under your jaw, her breath fanning at your neck and ear.

To say that she has you confused is an understatement.

Looking up in the mirror, you can see the sparkle blazing fiercely in the blue of her eyes, her teeth white and bare, so close to your neck she could sink them into your flesh and perhaps make even more damage than she could with her knife.

You instinctively grab at the arm holding the blade, eyes wide in panic.

“What are you doing?” You manage to ask with a strangle whisper, the knife digging deeply into your skin, making you wonder if she intends to actually  _ cut _ .

She smiles at you through the mirror, the tip of her nose brushing against the shell of your ear.

“I’m assaulting you.” She states through a crooked grin. “You should be fighting me, m’eudail. Where are your survival instincts?”

That makes sense - partially. But you’re already aware that your survival instincts she’s trying to trigger are nonexistent: why would you even stay there without trying to slit her throat at every given occasion, for instance? Despite everything, she remains your abductor, and you’ve grown accustomed to treating her like a roommate. Well, something definitely more complicated to define than a roommate, of course, but something very similar to one.  
A roommate that is currently holding a knife at your jaw, who has trapped you with her own body against the sink, the hard edge digging painfully into your hip, whose other hand is still kneading at your chest, hardly soothing anything.

“Men won’t hesitate to do their worst.” She purrs into your ear.

You open your mouth to speak, but once again you only produce a pitiful wheeze when you look at the mirror, following her hand when it leaves your breast and trails down your bare stomach, disappearing from the reflection in the mirror, but you still _feel_ her fingers, warm and ticklish as they ghost on your skin, stopping just above the band of your knickers.

Your breath catches, and in the attempt to remove yourself from that startling touch, your push back, leaning heavily against her body.

“Miranda–” You whimper, clueless about how to proceed from there. You pull again at the arm that is holding the knife, but the attempt is too weak, making it look like you’re not really trying.

Miranda scoffs in amusement behind you. Smug, mocking, cheeky - you can’t tell.

“You trust me.” She says. It’s not a question, it’s not a supposition, but a statement: she knows, and she’s telling you so you know it too.

You try to squirm away, gasping out broken sounds that are supposed to be complaints, but those too are weak, reduced to a restrained pant when you feel her fingers drawing lower, edging under the band.

Your breath catches again, and you blink in the mirror, pleading to be released or pleading for a mercy she won’t probably bestow.

Miranda smiles wildly at you.

Your brain shouts the hundred million reasons for you to try to escape, but your body just doesn’t react accordingly, and you squirm again, feet pounding in frustration.

She exhales a breathy chuckle, and claws at the soft flesh of your lower abdomen.

“Enjoying this as much as I am?” She mocks, and that tone makes you sober up instantly from the drunken state of your poisoned mind.

“No.” You blurt out, swallowing thickly, but maybe too harshly - were you eager to tell her the truth or to cover it with a lie?

“Pity.” She snarls, but the amusement doesn’t leave her voice. In a blink, she withdraws her hand from your stomach and you wince at the odd sensation of loss; then she angles her knife slightly, and the sharp point pierces at your jaw, scratching at your skin uncomfortably.

“Fight me, then.”

You pause. Gulping down thickly, you drop one of your arms and reach for the knife on your thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	25. Day 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reward is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 25 

You toss and turn into your bed, unable to fall back asleep.

You must’ve fallen into slumber for a couple of hours at most because the city outside your window is still cloaked into the darkness of the night. You haven’t dreamed, but you woke up with a startle, an invisible weight on your chest, and Miranda’s glare behind your eyes, fading into thin air when you blinked yourself awake.

You dive under the covers because it’s not like every other night: you feel your body alive, and you realize you’ll hardly fall back asleep.  
You reach for the glass on your nightstand, but scoff when you pick it up and it’s lighter than you thought. With a huff, you realize you must've forgotten to fill it with water the night before - yes, the night before was a mess and your brain couldn’t cope with everything that happened during the whole day. Almost twelve hours gone by in a blink of an eye.

You swing your legs off the bed and you opt to venture in the kitchen to get yourself something to drink - or a snack - then you'll decide what to do with yourself after that. Perhaps you should really think about a plan. Even if Miranda didn’t let you know, _you know_ you’re in trouble for what happened.

You sigh, without bothering to wear any pants when you paddle outside your bedroom, rubbing your eyes as you hardly suppress a yawn.

You squint at the light coming from the fridge, too bright for your unaccustomed eyes as you lean down to search for the water but you find none. You swallow sand down your throat, and think about drinking straight from the sink when you eye the milk - yeah, milk is good.

Perched on the stool with your back to the corridor, you suddenly feel too lazy to grab a glass and too eager to go back to the comfort and the warmth of your bed even though you know you won’t sleep, so for a hot second, you contemplate drinking straight from the carton; but then you freeze with the milk in your hand, your finger stopping abruptly from working on the opening. After all, you’re still waiting for a reaction; _you know_ there must be a reaction going to happen; _you know_ Miranda will be lurking somewhere, waiting for you to drop your guard and take you by surprise.

You’re already walking on a fine line, better not to piss her off more on purpose, especially after-

You bang your head down on the counter so hard that for a moment all your reality falls into a throbbing confusion.

Milk spills everywhere beneath you, soaking through your top, the fabric sticking to your upper body, cold and uncomfortable against your skin.

You’re vaguely aware of the hand fisting your hair, keeping your head down on the hard table, fingers clawing stronger and stronger as the confusion ebbs away.

You gasp and struggle, wincing when she pulls impossibly strong at your scalp.

“Miranda, what the fuck-” You try to protest, one hand flaring in panic, the other clawing at the edge of the table to offer yourself some leverage or balance.

You shut your eyes when she tugs at your head slamming it back on the counter, knocking the wind out of you. You know there will be a bruise on your temple and forehead tomorrow.

"You’ve been so good, yesterday.” She snarls between clenched teeth, and then you hear the swish of her blade.

There it was: the reaction - the _punishment_ you were waiting for.

“Miranda-”

“Shht.” She silences you with a surprisingly soft tut, then you feel her knife sliding under your top, cold and dangerous against your skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.  
And then there’s the noise of the fabric being torn, sliced, and the constriction on your upper body gives in completely, exposing your back.

“So good.” She echoes herself, and you’re mildly aware of her legs flush against the back of your own. And you feel awfully vulnerable in her thrall, doubled over on the table, Miranda hovering and pressing against you, her voice as dangerous as ever. “I think you’re in for a reward.”

 _Reward_.

The word settles in your brain the seconds before you feel the sharpness of her knife digging in your skin, in your flesh, and you clench your jaw at the familiar pain on your left shoulder, anchoring yourself to the only available things: physically, the table; mentally, her voice - how she whispers, how she shushes you, hardly soothing the pain she’s inflicting.

Was that her twisted concept of reward? Or is she blatantly mocking you?

The smell of milk, mixed with something more retching, enters your nostrils and you watch, almost hypnotized, when you feel the thickness of your blood dripping over your shoulder and dripping onto the table, dark speckles soiling the white liquid already there, blending in, thickening the messy puddle.

“Almost done.” She croons.

There are tears pricking at your eyes, but it seems quicker this time.

Your shoulder stings and throbs just like your head does, and when you hear her shuffling her knife close, probably to clean it up later, you release the breath you were holding, the air coming out of your lungs in broken wheezes.

“You just know how to make a girl proud.” She purrs behind you, and you feel the heat from her body still pressing against you.

You whimper lightly when you feel her hand ghost over your left shoulder, wiping at the fresh wound, probably to ward off the thick blob of blood about to collect there. Slowly, the grasp at your scalp softens, but you’re glad she minds your hair from getting wet with the spilled milk, because you’re in pain and already feeling sticky and uncomfortable as it is.

“I didn’t mean to hit you yesterday.” You whimper a pitiful apology even if the damage was already done, and barely restrain your tears.

“M’eudail, that’s precisely the reason why you’ve earned your reward.” She breathes out.

She said it’s a reward, even if it feels like a punishment.

She said, days ago, she was eager to give you _another one_ , something that would please her immensely - then _this is it_.

The thought of it had flashed through your mind for a moment before you decided it was too sick and odd - you were wrong. Perhaps you’re starting to get her? It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, after all - or is it?

Miranda sounds pleased indeed.

You muffled a complaint when her other hand trails down your exposed back, then slips swiftly under your waist, fingers clawing at your stomach as she hoists you up and effortlessly spins you around, the small of your back pressing against the edge of the table.

Miranda is smiling at you apparently unbothered by the split lip you gave her yesterday - accidentally, while fending messily, almost blindly, for yourself.

She’s giving you one of her embryonic smiles, teeth bare and shiny at the light of the town coming from the window. 

You shiver: there’s blood trailing warmly down your spine, and cool milk dripping from your chest on the floor. And Miranda is there, smug and complacent after she’s sliced you for the third time.

But then she frowns, and you tense with her, because once again she’s slipping from you, and suddenly you don’t get her anymore: the dangerous halo is gone from her, her grin has faded and her lips just hang there, parted, in a neutral expression and her eyes, they don’t shine the same way they shone barely seconds ago: they’re attentive, with the blue almost gone due to the darkness - or something else entirely.

“You’re crying?” She asks, her voice sounding almost alarmed.

You try to mutter a reply, but you end up producing a whimper, too confused and lost to harness your thoughts and control your mouth when the hand that has been fisted in your hair comes up to cup your face, her thumb wiping at the cheekbone.

You wonder what she can actually see without any source of significant light around, but she _must_ see because she’s mesmerized by the moisture she has collected on her pad when she spreads it on her fingertips.

Is she proud of the response she has just elicited with her knife? She sure had been, the first days - the first couple of times she cut you.

Now? Now you don’t know. Or maybe you’re just getting ahead of yourself, drunken with pain and the fog rising in your head.

“It hurt.” You justify with a small voice. “A bit.” You add, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly aware of the fact that you don’t actually know what she’s after, so you can’t give her the right answer - it never is anyway.

Miranda whips her head up, quickly losing interest in the show of her fingers coaxed with your tears.

“Physically?” She asks again, and her voice is flat.

You stare at her, daring to breathe.

“Why yes,” You stammer, brow slightly pinched, “physically.” 

Miranda gives a single nod of her head, eyes boring into you.

“Mh.” She mutters, the sound coming from the depth of your throat.

She seems satisfied with the answer, but at the same time, there’s a shadow on her face that you can’t quite grasp.

“One more.” She breathes out. Is she trying to be reassuring? Is she succeeding? “Just one more and we’ll be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	26. Day 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda is out: time to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 26

You look at the time on the microwave display and do the math, again, in your brain. She's been gone for nine hours now.

In the morning, after dragging you to the shower, she cleaned the wound thoroughly, poured the disinfectant, and patched you up with a nice band-aid of the right dimension. Then she slid a pill into your mouth, working it through your lips until you parted them and swallowed obediently, wincing at the bitter taste of it. Only five minutes later, you were swaying on your feet, talking incoherently while she practically carried you bad to your room. You clearly remember Miranda putting you in bed, but then only vaguely her pulling the covers up, her hand carding through your hair to free your face, her saying something, and then the distant thud of a glass of water being placed on your nightstand. She got up and went, switching the light off.

In the morning, when you ventured outside your bedroom to get something to eat, maybe talk to her, you only took a glimpse of her coat as she left through the front door, the sound of the lock filling the air.

And so you waited. And you’re still are, your right hand draped over the opposite shoulder, unconsciously running your fingers on the pad, eliciting stinging pain from the wound there. You haven’t had the chance to look at the damage, and frankly, you’re not even interested: even if she has something in mind, something specific, you just know that the possible pattern you’ll find there will be something obscure that only she can comprehend.

You don’t want to feel stupid - stupider than you already feel, that is - nor want to become fixated on something completely out of your reach; so you just try to ignore there’s something behind it, and simply dwell on the wound, the soreness spreading in your upper body, the throb in your head, the bruise on your temple where she’s slammed your head on the table.

Miranda is brutal, and yet… sometimes, she surprises you with her gentleness. Because there’s always something soft going on when she performs one of her attacks, there’s always a delicious dichotomy between her touches and her words, and when there isn’t one at the same time, Miranda easily switches from being absolutely feral to being careful, attentive, cautious.

She holds you in the palm of her hand, and you’re completely in her thrall, eager to taste her viciousness, thirsty for the following tenderness that has you dumbstruck each and every time.

You should be happy she’s gone, physically unable to harm you, or torture you in any way. Truth is, _you are not_. You want her near, no matter the possible danger, no matter her unpredictability.

Probably without even trying so hard, quite the contrary, in fact, Miranda has made herself essential. Miranda’s gentleness is surprising and intoxicating, but her viciousness is no less. You crave both; you crave  _ her _ .

It’s unhealthy. It’s fucked up. It’s... inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post every day after this update, but know that the following chapters are already defined (ending included).  
> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	27. Day 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just because you’re strong enough to handle pain, doesn’t mean you deserve it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 27

You need to speak to her. You  _ will  _ speak to her, as soon as she gets home. The situation is simply unbearable for you and even if you know she’ll probably get angry or avoid replying, you’re determined to know more - just _know_. What are you doing, exactly, there? Why has she treated you like that for days, and suddenly showed a glimpse of conscience? Why did she leave without a word the next day? Is it just you going crazy over something that doesn’t exist? Either way, you’re entitled to have some explanation, because really, what is keeping you sane? Miranda? Not now that she’s acting like that, messing up your already unstable existence.

So when you hear the keys rattling in the lock of the door, you almost jump onto your feet, shifting nervously your weight from one foot to the other, your hands balled up into two fists by your side as you ideally gather all the strength and courage you can master and hold it near to you.

The door opens. You see her hurry inside, shutting it close, leaning it against it heavily, head low so the wild mass of hair shields her face from your sight. You barely register her panting.

“Miranda, we need to talk-” And then all your bravery and previous intentions drain out of your body when you see her clutching at her stomach, blood dripping from the small spaces between her gloved fingers, her blouse soaked through underneath her unbelted coat.

You jump into action, mind blank all of the sudden, and you’re only eager to help.

Miranda gives you a wicked grin when she starts waddling inside, her free arm outstretched to paw at every surface to give herself some balance. You try to reach out, offer some help, but she just ignores you completely, and keeps walking toward the couch and the armchair.

“What happened?” You hear yourself wonder, frowning when you seem to be unable to find that part of you that, only a few moments ago, was completely enraged with that woman. Now you’re just worried - terrified; so much in fact that your stomach turns at the sight of the amount of blood on her blouse: she’s hurt and it looks serious.

“You should see the total fuck-up that tried to kill me in the elevator.” She mutters, hardly suppressing a pained moan when she lets herself drop heavily on the armchair. 

You stare at her completely befuddled. What fuck-up? What elevator? Are they still alive, are they after her?

If it wasn’t for the crimson, expanding stain on her abdomen, you would say she’s relaxing when she rests her head on the padded back of the armchair and closes her eyes.

The smell of copper is foul.

A million questions raise in thunder inside your head, but you can’t even grasp one. Should you help her? Risk a hand? Should you put your own troubles away, for the moment? You answer yes - to everything.

Swallowing hard, you hurry next to her and drop to your knees.

“How did it happen?” You ask, and try to grab her wrist, lift the hand clutching at the bleeding and see the damage for yourself.

But of course Miranda is quicker, and although debilitated, she grasps your hand with her free one, deadly as a snake, and stops you from touching her.

“It happened.” She counters, flashing her teeth.

You would swear there’s a part of her that is enjoying herself. Clenching your jaw, you try to wiggle out of her grip, but it’s helpless: the lather of her glove, as well as her slender fingers, are hooked onto your wrist, squeezing painfully.

You suppose it does happen all the time in her world - whatever her world is - of reckless hitmen and assassins and feuds between organizations, wealthy clients hiring people to kill others.

You suppose it can happen to get hurt.

But somehow you didn’t suppose it could happen to _her_.

Because Miranda is strong and reckless and dangerous and quick and smart and unpredictable and she’s shown you plenty of times already.

“How.” You insist.

Miranda heaves a sigh, suddenly bored of sporting a grin, and her breath comes out ragged. She winces, you do too, in sympathy.

“I was sloppy.” She grunts. “Got distracted.”

You frown deeply at that, shake your head a little.

“Is that even possible?” You snort and there's a tinge of irony in your voice, entirely to cover up your fright.

Miranda doesn’t answer. She blinks, and as you study her face, you can almost see hesitation, the subtle twitch on her lips when she tilts her head and catches you staring at her.

“Bring me the box in the bathroom, would you?” She winces again, trying to adjust herself in the armchair. She lets go of your wrist with a little push, making it clear for you that is time to back away from her.

You compel, and stand up, eyes locked on her, shifting quickly from her face, down to her bleeding stomach, back to her face again.

“You need to go to the hospital.” You say with a small voice.

“I can’t go to a fucking hospital.”

You were expecting that. It’s obvious, of course, but you felt the need to make the remark nonetheless. Because it doesn’t matter if she has a hundred enemies, if she’s wanted by the police or the FBI: Miranda needs to be looked after by a doctor who’s familiar with wounds - gun wounds, stab wounds? You don’t know and either of those thoughts makes you feel dizzy.  
She’s cut you three times already, you know pain, you know the smell of blood, you know the sight of blood, but it was your own, and the cuts had been controlled. This is different.

Miranda is the one who’s bleeding, and from some nasty fight wounds. An actual wound inflicted by, possibly, expert hands who intended to kill.

“My things.” She reminds, shooting her cold, blue eyes, into yours.

You flinch  
“You need stitches.” You say again.

“I just need my fucking things.” She breathes hard from her nose.

Honestly, it looks like you’re trying to annoy her or prolong her agony - you realize it - but in truth, you’re just concerned and petrified by the dread. You can hardly put an order to your thoughts. And yet, this state of yours isn’t useful to anyone, least of all to Miranda.  
You swallow, nod to yourself, and try to collect yourself; you rush to the bathroom and collect the box she keeps under the sink, the same one she took out two times for you when she bandaged you up after the cuts.

When you go back to the living room, you let yourself drop by her side, crossing your legs on the carpet and placing the box into your lap. You open it, waiting for further instruction, and you take a sharp intake of breath when you notice that Miranda has removed her gloves, fingertips coated with her own blood, dry and sticky, blouse open at either side of her, exposing her ravaged stomach.

She’s still clutching at it, and you can see the edges of the wound poking from beneath her palm - a stab wound, you decide.

You swallow thickly, hoping to be strong enough not to retch. You give her the bottle with the rubbing alcohol when she asks you to, and you close your eyes tight when you recognize the smell, and your own shoulder throbs at the memory, but you squeeze them even tighter when you hear her hiss and moan. You know she doesn’t want to, you know she’s trying her best to conceal her pain, yet it’s an inevitable reaction, and you wonder how much she’s actually hurting to lose control over her own body - you wonder what kind of wound can cause her will to falter and let her body take over.

You hear her breathing hard, then the empty bottle dropped to the floor.

When you dare to look up, she’s pinching the wound with her fingers, drawing the edges close - it’s deep but less than you thought, and there’s fresh blood gushing out of it.

You feel dizzy again, your head incredibly light and heavy at the same time.

“Pass the needle and the thread.”

Her voice is but a wheeze, but it’s enough to bring you back, and you blink at her, wide-eyed, your heart sunk down into the pit of your stomach. Does she really want to stitch herself up, right in the living room of her own apartment?

“What?” You mumble, dumbstruck.

“Needle and thread.” She repeats calmly.

You swallow and obey, surprised that she has one already prepared, maybe in case of an emergency, perfectly sealed into a sterilized pouch. You give it to her, and Miranda grabs it hastily, ripping it open with her teeth.

You watch her hold her breath, blink rapidly, maybe fighting bleary eyes.

She draws the curved needle close to her own stomach; then she pauses.

Her hands shake too much.

“Let me.” You hear yourself say.

You’ve never done anything remotely similar, and it’s probably written all over your face and you don’t even have to say it out loud, so you’re surprised when you reach out and grab her hands in yours, carefully easing the needle from her fingers into yours and she actually lets you do it, merely helping to keep the skin drawn together as you stitch her up.

“You need a doctor.” You mumble midway, entirely focused on your work, eager to fill the silence, give her and yourself a distraction - and maybe allowing her to utter some of those complaining noises she’s struggling to hold in.

“I don’t.” She counters, lolling her head back when you move next to a bruise.

You keep going, pause a little to let her catch a breath, and your gaze inevitably wonders on the aid box - the lotion for the wound, the disinfectant, the bandages you’ll use later to wrap her up, and the empty blister pack discarded in a corner.

When you finish, there’s dried blood on your hands, and it partially comes off when you carefully clean around the wound, mindful of the bruises that are starting to bloom everywhere on the taut skin of her stomach. At least she’s not bleeding anymore.

You try to remember what she did when she treated your cuts, and when you’re satisfied, you wave gently your hand, beckoning her up.

Miranda clenches her jaw, then slowly lifts her back from the armchair. You try to be gentle and yet wrap the bandages tightly around her middle, ignoring her involuntary wheezes her body forces her to manifest.

You vaguely remember her giving you pills and a lot of water to keep you hydrated, but the empty blister pack flashes in your mind.

“We ran out of painkillers.” You blurt out, wincing when you think about what you just said. “You used them all on me.” You correct, and suddenly eager to busy yourself, put the unused products back into the aid. You hear her breathing softer, the rustle of her boots shifting on the carpet bristles when she stretches out her legs.

“You needed them.” She says, clearing her throat to ward off the subtle quivering in there. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” she adds and her lips twitch upward into the shadow of another wicked grin. “I can handle it.” She states proudly, moving her shoulders as she nestles herself into the armchair.

She’s being unbelievable, and you still can’t get her. She’s slipping away again and you won’t allow it - not now, especially now that she’s more vulnerable than usual, not now that you might get a chance to prevail, at last.

When you close the box, you let the lid fall down, sure that it would make a noise. Miranda didn’t expect that, because she actually startles, her whole body jerks for a moment, then she hums, finding back her apparent peace in a split second.

It gets your nerves even more. How can she still act so smug after you literally sewed back together? And why does she feel the need to cover her pain with that sick smirk of hers? Or is she trained to endure pain? Maybe she taught herself to endure it.

And you thought you were the one living the lonely existence.

“Just because you’re strong enough to handle pain, doesn’t mean you deserve it.”

Even if you’re not looking directly at her, you know she has tilted her head to the side, you know that she’s watching you. Even if you’re not looking, you can feel the piercing blue of her eyes boring on you, staring, inquisitive.

Or maybe not.

She breathes once, twice. There’s a strange calmness around you, so you convince yourself and carefully lift your chin, and you _look_.

“But I do deserve it.” She replies softly, a bittersweet smile curving her lips.

You stare back, blinking in her direction.  
She kidnapped you, she tortured you, she almost killed you multiple times already, she cut you, keeps you locked, tests, uses you, brought you to let her do unspeakable things without complaints. She deserves it. You know she does. The rational part of your brain tells you she does deserve the pain and much more than that. Yet the rational part of your brain has been suffocated weeks ago; that part of you is easy to ignore.

“No.” You whisper. “No, you don’t.”

Miranda reaches out. Her hands are coated in dried blood, and you smell the stench on her fingers when she cups your face, probably smearing some of that foul, crimson paint on your cheek. Her blue eyes don’t bear the flash of danger, but you catch an unfamiliar glimpse of softness; her mouth is not curved into a smirk but into a tentative smile; her breaths, even if it comes out in ragged pants, is warm as it crashes onto your lips.

“I’m sorry for you.” She whispers. “You’ve got a twisted vision of me, m’eudail.”

You do, you know you do. But you can’t help it: she’s all you’ve got and Miranda has only herself to blame for it. So you nod in agreement, leaning more into her palm. 

“Maybe-” You mumble, your breath catches, “maybe I simply see what you’re unable to see yourself.”

You support her gaze and before you know it has become a contest of who will avert eyes first, one that neither of you seems willing to lose. And just like that, she looks away. You _win_ , but the prize is the worst of all you can dream of.

Miranda retracts her legs, pushing herself off the armchair, hardly suppressing a pitiful moan when she digs one hand into her hip as if to contain the pain.

“Miranda-” You reach out for her wrist, at least to pull her back down because she needs to rest and hse needs to stay still for a while, but she’s having none of it: she jerks away from your touch, as if you’ve suddenly burned her; on unsteady legs she stands up and storms away, marching to her own bedroom. You stumble up yourself, trying to follow, but she slams the door behind her, forcing you to stop abruptly in your tracks.

Between the two of you, you’d never imagine she would be the one running.

You stare at the closed door, ears twitching at the deafening silence she’s left.

Then, a sudden feeling of emptiness spreads in your chest like a plague.

How can you feel so empty and lonely, now that she’s gone from your sight? How can she feel so distant with only a plank of wood dividing the two of you?  
Those broken conversations, those talks that seem so important each time, that seem like they’re getting you somewhere and then leave you with a bitter taste on the back of your tongue because Miranda is once again slipping away from you.

Once and for all, is it just you? Should you just give up and surrender to your existence? It’s simply unacceptable. Because Miranda might be the same person who kidnapped you all those days -weeks - ago, but she feels different. She talks differently. She acts differently. Her touches are different. You’ve been scared of dying. Maybe it was time to recognize another kind of fear… in another person.

And if not, if all that was just your imagination, then all the better, you will find out the hard way.

Either way, you will finally put your heart to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	28. Day 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You check on Miranda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 28 

It’s getting dark when you decide to look for her. You’re ready to hear her yell to get out of her room, you’re ready to duck and avoid the shoe she will probably throw at you to shoo you off, you’re ready to put out a fight because it’s important to have someone who can actually take care of her for a while - bring her food, water and help her to the bathroom when she needs it - the Hell with your talk, there are more important things to think about right now. You’ll talk later, or in a few days; whenever she feels like it.

You grip tighter on the glass of water you’re carrying and you knock, but there’s no reply. You weren’t expecting a warm invitation to come in, of course, yet you weren’t expecting complete silence either.

Carefully, you push the door open, peeking inside the room. It’s a simple one like your own, but of course more furnished and slightly more modern with the style: a full-length mirror in one corner facing the window, a wardrobe, a dresser, a vanity and a desk with a closed laptop on top of it, and then, of course, the bed. You brace yourself and walk into the room, stretching your neck to actually be able to see the bed in its entirety and, more importantly, what’s under the bulge of covers. You don’t have to guess, of course, but you need to check the _state_ of her.

“Miranda?” You call tentatively, a part of you hating the idea of waking her up if she’s fallen asleep - because, well, doesn't she need rest? - the other part of you knowing she needs to at least stay hydrated to cope with the pain.

But as soon as you walk toward the bed and her, you realize she has taken the matter into her own hands and found a way to compensate for the absence of painkillers herself.

“Miranda.” You breathe out, somewhat disapprovingly, putting down the glass of water on the nightstand beside her.

Lips pursed, brow pinched, you wrap your fingers around her hand and gently work her fingers to unlatch from the empty whiskey bottle she’s gripping.

It’s the one she used to get you drunk the night of her alternative names game and you gulped down half of it before it knocked you down. Miranda has just chugged the other half. Can’t be good, but you can’t entirely blame her either.

She’s laying on her back, fast asleep - which is probably good - arms folded on her abdomen, the duvet draped across her body inefficiently.

“Miranda?” You call her with a whisper, with the sole purpose of getting some water into her, and then ask her if she needs anything - not that she will ever admit that, but you need to try nonetheless.

She gives you a grunt, blindly batting your hand away when you try to shake her shoulder. She turns her head on the other side.

You heave a long sigh when you climb on the bed beside her, minding not to disturb her, and you prop your back on the headboard, ankles crossed as you peer outside the window. By your side, Miranda snores softly.

You stay with her all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	29. Day 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Want me to give _you_ a wound to occupy yourself with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 29

You’re about to doze off when you hear the soft noises coming from beside you. It takes a few seconds to realize exactly where you are - Miranda’s room, not yours - and where you’re sitting, half slouching on a pillow - Miranda’s bed, not yours - a soft blanket draped across your legs.

You get an intake of breath, hardly suppressing a yawn, and turn over the woman laying beside you, shoulder quaking from a coughing fit.

You frown, turning to your side, narrowing your eyes when the bright lights of the dawn seep from the window.

“Miranda?” You call, but she’s stubbornly keeping her eyes close, both arms clutched to her stomach, clearly in pain for the forced seizures of her body.

You reach out for the glass of water, and hurry to help her lift her head, bringing the rim of the glass closer, but not to her lips just yet, to avoid starling her and making a mess on the bed.

“Miranda.” You call her softly, wincing when she covers the sound with another cough. You release a little huff and don’t dare to breathe just eyt when you slide your free hand under her head, fingers splaying on the nape of her neck and diving into the wild mane of dark hair.

You feel your heart skip a beat when she shoots her eyes open, but you don’t know if she’s glaring because she didn’t notice your presence until now if she’s mad that you’re there, or even if she’s vexed that you’re helping her without being requested to do so, but by your own initiative. Her glare, as always, is dangerous, but you can’t help feeling relieved when you peer into those blue eyes and find them completely lacking any bleariness.

“What are you doing?” She hisses, trying to jerk away and only procuring herself more pain, the sudden movement clearly tugging at her wound.

“I’m helping you.” You reply, matter-of-factly. Trying your best, you follow her, inching closer to her mouth with the water, the other hand instinctively gripping firmer on her neck to keep her still. “You did the same with me when I needed it, I’m returning the favor.” You explain, managing to keep a soft voice despite feeling utterly uncomfortable for some unbestowed reason. “You’ll feel better.” You promise.

You wait there, without moving a muscle when you see her struggle to contain another coughing fit. In the end, she gives up reluctantly, accepting the help, latching her lips on the glass and gulping the water greedily.

While she drinks, you take the opportunity and check on her, feeling with your other hand if she has a fever - you worried all night she might have an infection, but you didn’t want to disturb her because you were sure she would wake up at the slightest of touches and you thought it was better for her to rest - and, luckily, she seems to be fine. You can scratch that off the list.

You slowly part from her, guiding her head back on the pillow and you both relax.

“Thank you.” She croaks out, clearing her throat as her coughs finally subside.

You stare at her, hardly concealing a surprised smirk: in all those days of forced coexistence, she hasn’t talked to you with anything but smugness and sufficiency, her voice teetering from crude and threatening, to soft and tempting but never ceased to preserve a bitter aftertaste of danger.

Yesterday she said she was sorry, and there was nothing concealed under the melancholic smile she gave you.

Today she thanked you, and still, there was nothing beneath the quivering in her voice.

If you thought you could ever reach out to her, hoping she wouldn’t slip away once more, that was the moment: with her guard down, perhaps it was the first time you’re allowed to see Miranda - the small, vulnerable bit that you don’t know how long it’ll stay without the mask being pulled up again.

You watch her eyes flutter close, and for a moment you squirm on your spot, genuinely surprised she would even let you stay right where you are without prompting nor barking any order. You could be mistaken, but she seems comfortable, or even content, to know that you’re there. Are you getting ahead of yourself again? It was now or never, no more messing around.

_ Here goes nothing. _

“How’s the wound?” You inquire.

Miranda remains unbothered; you watch her clutch her arms on her abdomen almost protectively, wincing before settling down.

“Why do you even care?” She exhales, her features unchanging.

Is her wall back up again already?

You shrug, even if you’re aware that she won’t see you.

“I care.” You reply simply.

She scoffs.

“You don’t mean that.” She states without assumption, and there’s the shadow of a mockery grin on her lips.

You swallow. She’s right: you  _ shouldn’t  _ care, and yet there you are, sitting legs crossed on the bed of your abductor, the same woman who tortured you, sliced you, hit you several times, all the while remaining a mystery; there you are, after spending the night dozing in and out, whipping your head up at every subtle noise she made or at the slightest shift of her body; there you are, yearning to finally tear that veil that still cloaks her, shielding her from you, keeping you inevitably apart.

Will you ever have the courage? Will she ever let you in?

“I care.” You echo yourself, voice cold and stubborn, crossing your arms over your chest. Again, she scoffs. “How’s the wound?” You insist, feeling the muscles on your forehead twitch as you struggle not to frown because honestly, you’re feeling like a petulant child protesting for being denied the object of desire. You simply long to know - is it really too much to ask? Too utopistic to accomplish, the knowledge to put your heart at ease?

Miranda lies still, you feel fire rising inside your chest. In one, swift movement, you reach out for her hand to peel it off her stomach and actually take a look, but of course you were not swift enough, nor quick enough, and instead of grabbing her hand, it is Miranda the one who grabs your wrist instead, preventing you from touching her by a hair.

Blue eyes sparkle in yours, her jaw tightens and so does her hold, her fingers squeezing to the impossible, digits digging into her flesh and gripping at your bones. You let out a pant, determined not to manifest the pain she’s eliciting, but that only spurs her to  _ squeeze  _ more.

“Don’t be annoying.” She warns, snarling between her teeth. “Want me to give  _ you  _ a wound to occupy yourself with?”

The threat should make shivers crawl up your spine, but instead, you find yourself staring at her, unfaltering, even though you know she could keep her promise: even if debilitated, she could hurt you in ways you can’t even phantom. You know she could, but you know she won’t - somehow.

“You want to break my wrist? Go ahead.” You rebuke, challenging, yelping when she twists your hand slightly, making your bone snap. “You’ve already shown me your worst.” You clench your jaw in preparation for the final  _ crack, _ then let out a pant, locking your gaze into her blue, intelligible eyes. “You don’t scare me.”

With those words leaving your mouth, so does all your bravery, leaving you like an empty shell, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

Would she take your last statement as a challenge? Would she break your wrist just to prove you something? She could do that simply to put you back in place and, honestly, you’re not even sure if you actually deserve it.

You swallow, holding your breath, waiting for the pain of broken bones to wash over you and sweep through your body, but instead, you feel her grip beginning to get just a little bit loose; still tight, still painful, but looser.

“You should be scared.” She states.

You know you should.

“I’m not.” You murmur sincerely, your shoulder twitching into a helpless shrug.

“You should despise me.” She says again.

You know you should.

“I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	30. Day 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I said that you could forget about this and never see me or hear from me again, would you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's **soft** , get on board. -1 *cries*  
> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 30 

After convincing her to put some food in her at lunchtime, you dragged her for a quick visit to the bathroom, only to let her sleep again, hoping a nap would help her cope with the pain. You sat on the bed with your ankles crossed, your notebook in your lap, flipping through the pages with no particular interests and wincing at the delirious scribbles you left there.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when Miranda blinks her eyes open and, with a loud grunt of utter frustration, she informs you she is sick and tired of staying in bed.

You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from barking out the two replies that have popped out in your head: one being ‘what do you want me to do about it?’, and the other being ‘you should stay there’. With the first, she would have any right to smack you square in the face, with the second, you would sound patronizing and eager to put yourself in a commanding position and she surely wouldn’t appreciate you talking so boldly about it. You can take an upper hand now, she has let you know that, but it would be wise not to punctuate it.

“I’ll be right back.” You inform and crawl off the bed feeling her eyes following you with intent.

You push the couch so it faces the window and go back to Miranda’s room. She’s peering at you silently, simply clutching at her own stomach when you draw the covers from her body and stretch out your arms, prompting her to at least attempt to sit up. Miranda stares at you for what seems like an hour, you know she’s studying you, wondering what you have in mind, but you’re determined not to reveal anything. It’s your way to give back… whatever she’s given you.

You help her out of bed and despite claiming she’s perfectly capable of walking by herself, she’s leaning heavily into your hold. You end up half-carrying her to the living room; for the whole distance, she tries to bat your arms and hands away, successfully hitting you quite a few times between growls. Sighing, you swallow every profanity until she is seated, curled grumpily on herself.

You shove a pillow behind her back, deaf to her protests, and you watch her slouching a bit, making herself comfortable so she isn’t in pain - not too much.

Only then you move to the kitchen, boil water in the kettle, and pour it into her mug, adding the cloves you find in one of the cabinets, still sealed into their vial.

You take some ice and pack it into a napkin before going back to the couch, carrying everything and presenting it to her.

Miranda scoffs.

You don’t move.

After ten minutes in which your hands have gone numb, she takes the ice and places it on her stomach. After twenty, defeated, she grabs the mug as well and takes a tentative sip. She winces in mild disgust.

You smile at her triumphantly, only to bite your inner cheeks and quench your cheekiness at the deadly glare she throws at you. It’s still not the time to act smug and rub your own little victory into her face: she’s letting you take care of her without lashing out, that should be enough. And it is - it makes you feel privileged.

“It’ll help with the pain.” You say, trying to sound reassuring.

“I wouldn’t blame you for feeding me horrible things just for the sake of it.”

You stare at her befuddled. It’s the first time she’s ever said something ironic to you; it’s the first time she actually looks relaxed. It’s nice, but also odd.

She seems to realize that herself, and you watch her throw her head back, exhaling loudly from her nose.

You decide it’s better not to make any remark, you just drop on the other side of the couch, perching yourself on the other arm, as far as you can from Miranda. 

You listen to her slowly drink the infusion, you can hear her swallow, her nails tapping on the china. And suddenly the silence is too loud for you.  
You contemplate for a moment starting to talk about your old life, telling her about your beloved strolls in Central Park, that small café you visited every Thursday after work - though she’s probably already aware of that - or how you liked to read before bed, sitting on the windowsill while the sun set behind the city skylines, but as soon as you take a breath to talk, Miranda clears her throat.

You swallow down your words, suddenly all forgotten inside your head because you know - you can feel it - she’s about to say something herself, and it could be far more important than your meaningless babbling about something that belongs to a past that is no more.

“If I said that you could forget about this and never see me or hear from me again, would you?”

When you turn to look at her, Miranda is staring outside the window; she blinks, her lips ajar.

“Would I _what_?” You ask, the blankness settling in your brain playing against you: she’s dropped her mask, willingly, and she’s talking to you - really talking to you - for the first time.

Miranda looks down at the mug nestled in her lap, both of her hands wrapped around it as if she’s warming her fingers. White smoke rises, dissipating a few inches from her face. You stare, almost mesmerized.

“Leave.” She says. “Right now.”

You gape at her, moving your mouth like a goldfish for a moment.

“Because you’d let me go?” You almost scoff, and there’s a tinge of ironic disbelief in your voice that you couldn’t conceal. You cross your arms over your chest when she falls silent and go back to look out of the window, hoping the static sight of the skyscrapers will soothe you. It doesn’t, you shrug. “Why did you go through all the trouble of secluding me in the first place, then?” You blurt out, brow pinched.

Any other time, she would be at your throat already. Instinctively, you relax your features and squirm in your spot, ready to apologize.

Miranda remains still.

“Replying with another question, doesn’t answer mine.” She counters, she sounds firmer now, demanding. “Would you leave?”

You let out a frustrated sigh.

“It’s a little late to give me a choice, even a hypothetical one.” You turn your head again, eyebrow cocked with exasperation. It is the talking you were waiting for, but it’s not the way you pictured it would go.

“I’m giving you one right now.” She counters stubbornly, eyes fixed on the mug. 

You shake your head, suddenly at a loss of words. Seriously, if you really search yourself… would you leave? If it is a _no_ , can you even admit it? If it is a _yes_ , why is panic rising within you? Your inability to formulate an actual answer is getting under your skin.

“It’s not that simple, Miranda.” You scoff again, rubbing your forehead. You thought you could elude her question, but just any other time, she seems to know and understand what’s on your mind even before you realize it yourself.

“You would give up your freedom willingly?”

When you peek with the corner of your eye, Miranda is looking at you. Her brow is slightly pinched, eyes narrowed into a confused expression.

You sigh. You wanted her to be sincere, it is only fair to be sincere in return. Maybe there is no right or wrong answer, after all.

“I was never free in the first place.” You admit with a small voice. You were a slave to ordinary life, just like the majority of people. Even if horrible, at first, Miranda deciding to kidnap you has been a sparkle of extraordinariness you would’ve never dreamt to experiment in your life. “No.” You murmur. “I wouldn’t.”

The mug shatters on the floor. Ices cubes scatter everywhere.

When you feel her hand grabbing your arm, it’s too late to react. She tugs at you viciously, with a surprising strength that makes you tip on the couch; taken aback by that display of energies, you scramble messily until you’re laying onto your back. Looking up at her with bleary eyes, you see her baring her teeth in one of those grins of hers; she winces, then grins once more, clearly struggling to ignore the pain. And then she’s up, and she’s quick in crushing down on you, planting her knee into your ribcage, pinning you down with her weight.

“What if I do this?” She presses down until the air gets knocked out of your lungs.

You push against her leg, but she doesn’t buckle. She doesn’t even need her hands to stop you because there’s no _need_ to stop you from your weak tries.

Miranda smiles again as she grips the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, the other pressing against the binding around her abdomen. 

“What was that?” She inquires, cocking an eyebrow, leaning closer into you.

You let out a ragged breath.

“Miranda, stop-”

“I asked you a question.” She insists.

“I said _no_.” You croak out.

You see her clenching her jaw.

When her hand leaves the back of the couch and wraps around your neck, you’re already out of breath. You reach for her wrist, tug at it; again, useless.

“What about now?” She hisses, and she leans even closer. Her breath fans your lips, parted into a futile attempt of drawing breaths.

You frown, swallow, feel her fingers push against the muscles in your throat.

“No.” You hiccup. “You can't scare me away.” You mumble with the last bit of air.

She squeezes tighter as if to prove you’re wrong.

You contemplate nudging at her stomach where you know the wound is, because that’s what Miranda would do, and did, after cutting your shoulder - and maybe it’s exactly what she _wants_ you to do to force her to release you - but her yelp of pain already echoes in your ears and your heart clenches. You’re not Miranda; you can’t, you _won’t_ procure her pain, not like this of all things.  
So you do nothing of the sort, just grip tighter at her wrist, shaking your head furiously, stubbornly.

 _No_. You won’t leave. You shut your eyes when your chest spasm in protest for the lack of air, and feel tears streaming down your temples.

You think you’ll pass out, that maybe this time she won’t let go and strangle you for good, for a moment, you seriously think that this is how you’ll die - and you do, for an instant, you die a little, when you feel her lips pressing against yours.

It’s delicate, it’s soft, a touch that only lasts for a moment, but tastes of eternity because the world has stopped spinning. It’s over just how it started.

She releases the grip, but her hand stays on your neck. You snap your eyes open, gasping for air, and you look at her befuddled, wondering if you didn’t just imagine that in your near-death delirium.

Her eyes shine above you, her face is all you can see.

“Would you leave now?” She asks softly, and her breath carries the faint, bitter smell of cloves.

You shake your head without looking away.

Miranda smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment: I'll be eternally grateful.


	31. Day 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourth line. Everything ends and begins here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From soft of the previous chapter to **smut**. Get on board.  
> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

DAY 31 \- FIN

You shut your eyes, focus all your thoughts on forgetting about the soreness that has settled in your jaw, the low spots in either of your cheeks feeling pleasantly tight and overworked. You ignore the stinging sensation in your scalp where she’s fisting your hair, as well as the impending need for air in your lungs, the sensation of drowning combined with light dizziness growing addicting over you.

Among all the ways you’ve been trapped and bound in those days, between her thighs is certainly the best one.

It’s crazy how all those days are silenced in the softness of her flesh, all the pain dissipated in the subtle twitch of her muscles gripping your head, all her unpredictable outburst of uncalled violence forgotten in the musky scent of her.

With her hand pulling at your hair to draw you nearer, you snap your eyes open, looking up at her through hooded lids, catching promptly your cue to keep going - a little faster, a little more.

Her head is bowed down, a cascade of dark, soft hair falling like a curtain over her face.  
You would do anything to be able to reach out and push her locks behind her ears, over her shoulder, simply to be able to watch her come undone, but you can’t, pinned down with your back on the carpet, hands hooked below her thighs, fingers grabbing at her buttocks.

You can barely see the pearly white of her teeth glimmering with the early light of the dawn, her lips parted as she chases her release, hips bucking in sync with the movement of your tongue, which are spurred by the delicious streams of moans that escape her mouth - more hoarse now, louder, gathering momentum.

The bristles of the carpet beneath your back rub scalding heat on your skin and they still smell of alcohol, but you don’t care.

When she grows stiff above your, her thighs clamping deliciously tight around your head, you keep lapping at her, suckling greedily at the twitching bundle of nerves as you help her ride her peak, prolonging the agonizing bliss.  
You draw her closer to you, slowing your movements when her strangled moans turn into ragged breaths.

The grip pulling at your scalp decreases, her hand combs through your hair and you can hear her giggle as she lifts herself on her knees, only to shift lower on your body, her wet core lowering onto your stomach - it's slick, viciously tempting.

Miranda doesn’t say anything, she whips her head so that the mass of hair shifts behind her shoulder, and looks down at you with a satisfied smirk. The hand in your hair travels down on your cheek, and you lock eyes with her as she wipes at your chin with her thumb, collecting the evidence of her release on her pad.

Drawing a long breath, you smile at her scent that still lingers in your nostrils, and you tentatively move your jaw to ward off the aching tightness, suckling in your bottom lip to taste the remnants of her.

“You’re alright?” You ask, panting, your eyes dropping for a moment at the tight bindings wrapping her middle, at her free hands ghosting over the spot where the wound hides beneath.

Miranda nods hurriedly and you watch her smile at your concern.

Your eyes travel up, between the valley of her breasts, the pert nipples, up to her face, the glimmer in her eyes, her parted lips.

“Turn around.” She orders with a soft voice.

She rocks her hips teasingly over your stomach, coaxing your skin with herself, before propping on her knees again, without moving much, and you compel, turning lazily on your stomach.

Behind you, the _click_ and the _shuffle_ of her knife echo louder than both of your breaths combined.

She lowers herself again, settling on your lower back. You bring your arms up to pillow your head in them and, anticipating what’s going to happen, you close your eyes, try your best to relax your muscles.

The blade is cold against your skin when she traces the previous lines, most of them healed and transformed into ridged scars that will smooth with time.

You hiss when you feel the pointy knife sinking inside your flesh. Miranda shushes you gently and presses deeper. You feel her move her hand, trailing down, deliberately slow, and you bite at your own arm to stifle your whimpers, struggling not to squirm away from the pain.

“Don’t move, be a good girl.” She admonishes. Her other hand trails down your side gently, but hardly does anything to take away the pain.

When she withdraws the blade, you release the breath you didn’t know you were holding, and you vaguely register the high-pitched thud of the knife being thrown away and sliding on the floor.

When you feel the flat of her tongue pressing against the raw cut, you tense underneath her, hiding your head between your crossed arms when you hear her hum, probably at the taste of your blood. It soothes some of the pain, but an annoying stinging settles in your shoulder.

“Perfect.” Miranda comments, clear pride coming from her voice.

The weight of her on the small of your back is gone, with the corner of your eye you see her sway one of her legs over your body and, careful not to tug at her wound, she sits on the carpet with her legs crossed. She lays back, leaning on one hand, the other going to pat on her thigh, her grin commanding and blissfully mischievous.

“C’mere, m’eudail.”

You swallow thickly through a dry throat, wincing when you push yourself up and crawl to her, the muscles in your back protesting with pangs of pain spreading in all your body.

Miranda grabs your arm as soon as you’re close enough and guides you to sid on her lap; your legs wrap around her hips, just below her bindings and the wound - near, but not enough to cause her pain - and you find yourself vulnerability spread for her, your bare centres close together, sharing heat.

Your arms come to rest on her shoulders to balance you, your ankles lock behind her.

Miranda keeps you near, smiles at you with shining eyes, pupils blown with lust, her mouth dyed in red, teeth bared into one of those smirks of hers.

Her hand sneaks between your bodies, cups you, and your eyelids grow heavier when she begins to stroke lazily at your folds, collecting the dampness she finds there. She hums in agreement, smugly satisfied with herself and you feel the heat spreading from your chest, a mix of thrill and embarrassment rushing through your body. Her fingers are deft, she expertly moves on your most sensitive skin as if she has a map, touches all the right spots, changes and angles every bit of her hand just right.

You move in tandem with her movements, pushing closer to her, eager to feel more of her, merge into that very essence that is Miranda: soft and dangerous, mysterious and familiar at the same time.

The release takes you by surprise. You shiver into her half hold, struggling to control the jerks of your limbs, her breathy chuckle fanning your ears. She resumes her lazy strokes through the aftershocks, then softly bumps your heads together.

“Watch.” She whispers.

You frown at her, breathing hard, then you notice Miranda gazing at the window behind you.

Turning your head as far as it goes, you narrow your eyes to glimpse at the reflection of both of you in the glass.

You shiver at the sight of your bare body roamed by her greedy hands, short nails scraping possessively at your skin, but soon enough, your gaze locks on your shoulder, at the crimson streams dribbling alongside the slope of your spine.

Miranda nibs at your jaw, blood-stained lips beckoning you.

You crash on her mouth, laugh at the foul taste of copper combined with the last trace of her arousal mixing between your tongues as they fighting for predominance. You willingly grant her the lead, more than content than simply returning the wanton kiss.

The laugh you share is feral, primordial, and so liberating, and neither of you knows where it starts or where it ends.

You feel accomplished, and proud, because she has branded you in the most delicious of ways: everything has come at a full circle, all so blatantly clear now, so perfect, since the beginning.

Just like she'd planned all along, on your left shoulder, permanently carved on your skin, there’s a bleeding **M**.

Miranda smiles against your lips as she holds you tighter.

“Now, you’re truly mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved Sapphics pervs, this is the end of this story... but I've already opened a google doc for a sequel. Shower me with comments if you want me to publish that (in the future).  
> In the meanwhile, thank you all so much. This thing started as a ~~self-indulgent~~ game and I never thought it could meet the taste of so many people.
> 
> You guys are amazing! Mwah!  
>  _x G_

**Author's Note:**

> For updates & extras about my stories, follow me on ista: lamarwy_ao3


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